Читать книгу Rescued by a Wedding: Texas Wedding / A Marriage Between Friends - Kathleen O'Brien - Страница 11

IT WAS TWO IN THE MORNING. After a long evening poring through payroll records, Susannah yawned while she roamed the first floor, checking dead bolts and turning off lights.

As she passed the staircase that led down to the wine cellar, she heard a strange scrabbling noise deep in its shadows.

For a moment, she felt the hair on the back of her neck rise. The wine cellar had been her grandfather’s last folly, a ridiculous expenditure better suited to the millionaire rancher he’d once been than the struggling, debt-ridden peach farmer he’d become.

She used the front part of the cellar now for preserves, and the occasional bottle of peach wine. The back half, beyond the wrought-iron wine door, had become a mess of storage and clutter. Boxes of sentimental junk, yard games, canopies and chairs that came out only for parties, furniture too broken to sit in but too fine for the dump.

Her grandfather’s ghost would be appalled.

Luckily, she didn’t believe in ghosts.

But she heard the noise again, so it hadn’t been her imagination, either. It must be Trent down there, rooting around in the dark. She wondered why, then remembered that she’d mentioned she needed to dig out the tents and get them cleaned for the peach party.

She hadn’t been hinting for him to do it. Had he thought she was? It wouldn’t have crossed her mind to ask him to lug anything so heavy, not after taking that hard fall this afternoon.

She felt a nip, like a small bee sting of guilt, deep in her conscience. She hadn’t even properly thanked him for his work on the trees, much less offered any TLC for his injury. Pitching in on odd jobs at Everly was above and beyond anything their “agreement” required of him. And things were such a mess around here that she was deeply grateful for any extra help from anyone.

She just hadn’t known how to show it without feeling vulnerable. Only anger felt truly safe, and she hadn’t had the courage to retreat from it, even when he clearly deserved better treatment.

Relations between them were obviously going to remain complicated, but that didn’t absolve her from the obligation to show decent manners. She made her way down the stairs quickly. She had on only a nightshirt, but it was old and grubby, and no one could construe it as a come-on.

“Trent? Please don’t bother with the tents tonight. They weigh a ton, and you shouldn’t—”

To her surprise, he was sitting at the center tasting table, with a bottle of peach schnapps and a shot glass laid out before him on the recycled-wine-barrel surface. The recessed lighting her grandfather had installed overhead picked out blue-black diamonds in his hair, but the rest of him was mostly in shadow.

“Oh.” She stopped at the foot of the stairs. “I’m sorry. I thought you might be trying to find the tents.”

“No.” He lifted the bottle and topped off the glass. “Just stealing a little home-made painkiller. If I took the stuff Doc Marchant left, I’d be a zombie tomorrow.”

She glanced at his hand, which had a small bandage on the palm, and then his leg, which he had stretched out before him in an ever-so-slightly unnatural position. His jeans covered the cut on his calf, so she couldn’t judge how bad it was.

“Does it hurt a lot?”

“Nothing the schnapps won’t cure.” He jiggled the bottle, sending little white fairy lights scampering over the brick walls. “This stuff packs a punch.”

She knew it was true. When her grandfather had run out of money less than halfway through stocking these Malaysian mahogany racks, she’d found him down here almost every night, brooding over his laptop, researching wines he’d never buy and getting plastered on peach schnapps.

But although liquor had always made her grandfather meaner, it seemed to be mellowing Trent. His voice sounded almost warm, as if the drink famous for thawing out Alpine skiers had finally cut through the ice inside him, too.

“I heard Doc Marchant had to sew up your calf.” She cringed, imagining. “Nineteen stitches, is that right?”

Trent shook his head. “That sounds like Zander’s usual hyperbole. It was only six stitches, and only because Marchant is a worrywart. I’ve had worse cuts from sliding down rocks at Green Fern Pool.”

She would have believed him, except that she’d seen the blood.

She still wasn’t sure how it had happened. The memory had the disjointed quality of a nightmare. She’d just met Richard on the back porch when she heard the crash of something heavy and metallic slamming into the ground. And then, before she could identify the cause, she saw Trent tumble from the ladder.

Without thinking, she flew down onto the lawn, her heart racing. She called out his name. No pausing to consider her dignity. No wondering whether he’d want her help.

Pure reflex. Pure gut.

The ladder wasn’t all that high, thank God, and it was clear immediately that there was no grave danger. While she knelt in the grass beside him, trying to still her heart and catch her breath, he pulled himself to his feet and shook himself off with a smile.

Within seconds, Zander, too, came running from the other side of the yard. The two men walked off together to check out what they insisted was just a scrape.

The message had been clear. Trent hadn’t wanted her to fuss over him then, and he certainly wouldn’t want it now.

“Well, I guess I should go,” she said after an awkward pause. “I just wanted to be sure you weren’t trying to haul out those tents. I was headed—”

She hesitated, suddenly uncomfortable about mentioning bed, for fear it might sound like an invitation. But the hesitation was conspicuous, too. “Headed upstairs.”

He looked amused, though he didn’t say anything.

Argh. She leaned her head against the cool bricks and shut her eyes for a second. Did every road lead to sex?

“I wanted to tell you…I’m really sorry about the ladder,” she said, eager to change the subject. “As you can see, I’ve had to let a lot of the repairs and maintenance slide lately.”

“Don’t worry.” He smiled. “I won’t sue.”

She couldn’t help smiling back. “That’s only because you know there’s nothing to get.”

He raised one eyebrow, toying with his empty shot glass with the tips of his fingers. “Oh, I wouldn’t say that. No money, maybe.”

The cellar’s extravagant, Internet-monitored thermostat and humidity control system had long ago been disabled, but suddenly the temperature in the shadowy room seemed to drop ten degrees. Susannah looked at his fingers, and something about their slow grace made her shiver.

The way he looked at her…

There was no mistaking what he meant.

Suddenly she realized what a foolish mistake she’d made, letting guilt send her down here. She knew he hadn’t given up his plan to make her pay, and wasn’t this the perfect spot, with its cool seclusion, the musty smell of old wine and the sticky sweet scent of peaches? He must have known she’d come. He’d waited here, like a panther, in the dark.

And she’d fallen right into the trap. She was the moronic horror movie heroine who, even knowing there was a killer in the house, still decided to investigate the spooky noises in the basement.

“But then,” he went on, “money hasn’t ever been my weakness.”

His voice made her shiver, too. She crossed her arms in front, holding them by the elbows, trying to warm herself. “Trent, I really should go to—”

“To bed. Yes, I know. We can do that, too, if you like. Later.”

“That isn’t what I meant. You’re deliberately misunderstanding me.”

“I think we understand each other perfectly.” He held out a hand, palm up. The bandage gleamed in the recessed lights. “You made a bargain, and it’s time to keep it. I promise you it won’t be too painful. It will meet all your terms, Sue. All pleasure. No risk. No repercussions.”

She flushed, well aware of what he wanted. Oral sex. He wanted her to take him into her mouth, and her hands, and make him come. Back when they first made love, at only eighteen, he’d begged her to. He’d told her that all girls did it. All men wanted it.

But she’d been afraid, afraid that she wouldn’t know how, that she wouldn’t be good enough, that she’d try and try, humiliating herself, only to fail.

She’d been such a prissy lover, she knew that now. Such a tame little Puritan. Only in the back of the car, only with their clothes on, only on the bottom, only in the dark.

She’d been so naive, in fact, that when she stumbled on Trent and Missy Snowdon in the abandoned playground that rainy midnight, sitting together on the swing, she had no idea what was happening.

She hadn’t been able to see him all day. Her grandfather had company and he required her to be on hostess duty. Trent, of course, hadn’t been invited. By late night, she knew that Trent probably wasn’t expecting her to show up at the playground, where they sometimes met. But she sneaked out anyhow, hoping against hope that he might have gone there, too, just in case. Surely he wanted to see her as much as she wanted to see him.

The sound reached her first, the grind of metal against metal as someone pumped the swing rhythmically back and forth. She heard throaty laughter, and other noises that were harder to identify.

She peered toward the swing set, off in a corner. Rain diamonds winked as moonlight caught on the metal legs and the thick, glistening rod of the frame. She saw the groaning swing move back and forth, never going very high, two sets of hands gripping the wet chains, slipping, gripping again.

At first she thought they were just playing. Doubled up, with Missy in Trent’s lap, the way children might do just for the crazy fun of flying backward. Limbs tangled, hair flying, sharing the thrill.

Shock made her stupid. She worried, like an idiot, whether the chains were strong enough to hold them both, with Trent so tall, so much heavier than any child.

But then Missy’s groans turned to soft screams, and the swing’s rhythm became jerky, spasming as Trent’s heels dug into the ground, finding traction to push harder, thrust faster, finding his own orgasm there in the rain.

And then, finally, far, far too late, Susannah understood. Understood that he had needed more than an uptight little prude.

That she wasn’t enough for him.

That the world as she knew it was over.

She wondered why the memory still hurt so much, when she’d hardly thought of that night in years.

Was it because she was finally old enough to see what an idiot she’d been to run away that night, scalded, to nurse her wounds in private and concoct a revenge plot as stupid as flirting with Paul? She knew now that she should have charged right up to that swing set and overturned the cheating bastard headfirst into the dirt. Even if she’d scratched Missy Snowdon’s eyes out, that would have been a more mature way to handle it. It couldn’t have saved their relationship, but it might have saved Paul’s life.

Or maybe the memory felt so fresh and raw again because she realized that she owed Trent. She had made a deal with him, and he’d kept his part of the bargain. After all these years, she was going to have to live up to her part of their agreement and let him touch her again…something he hadn’t done since that night.

“All right,” she said in a low voice. “I’ll give you what you want. But only because I know you, and I know that if you don’t get what you need here, you’ll go looking for it somewhere else.”

He didn’t answer. He just sat there, waiting, as if he didn’t care what her reasons were. The king, waiting for his subject to perform.

She felt something harden inside her. She crossed the marble floor in five steps. He still sat in the chair, with his leg stretched out at that odd angle. She took a breath, then, holding the arms of his chair for stability, she sank to her knees in front of him.

“I’ll do it, because I won’t be a laughingstock for you again.”

He smiled oddly. “And because you promised this would be a real marriage? Because you used that promise to get me to marry you? Because you wouldn’t want to be a liar and a fraud?”

She tilted her head up and met his gaze without flinching. “You’re right. I made this deal, and I have to live with it. But I want you to know that I hate you. I hate you for not being man enough to set me free.”

He tilted his head an inch to one side, though otherwise he didn’t move a muscle. “I’m afraid you’ll have to hate me, then.”

She nodded, understanding that there was to be no reprieve. She reached out, forcing her hands not to tremble, and carefully unbuckled his belt. She felt him watching her, but she didn’t raise her eyes to his face again.

She unbuttoned the top of his jeans, and as her hands grazed the denim she felt the heat rising from him. She sensed the swollen bulk of his penis under the cloth. Instinctively, she cupped it with her palm, as a sudden tactile memory burned through her.

She had thought this would be strange, after all these years, after all the anger. But though their hearts had grown apart, grown bitter, their bodies were still the same. This was still Trent, her Trent. She knew him. She knew what he felt like, the shape and warmth and musky smell of him.

He pulsed under her hand. He needed this. She remembered how he had always looked as he first thrust into her, an agony of tension and heat, as if his body was on fire, and only she could put out the flames. It had thrilled her, but it had scared her, too, because she sensed a power she couldn’t control.

She slid the zipper down one millimeter at a time, knowing that the pressure was dragging along the length of him like a slow torture. When it was fully open, she pulled back the edges of the denim, slid her hand under the cotton boxers, and took the hard fullness of him into her hand.

He groaned. He throbbed once under her fingers, and she was shocked to realize that something hot and deep inside her was throbbing, too.

She wanted this. For the first time in her life she desperately wanted to feel this velvet steel against her teeth, her tongue. Her mouth curved, instinctively knowing what to do.

She bent her head. But then, out of nowhere, his hands were against her hair.

“What?” His voice was hoarse. “No foreplay?”

She drew a jagged breath. She looked up at him, feeling slightly dazed. Frustration coursed through her. She was ready. He was ready.

“What do you mean, foreplay?”

He rose to his feet in one graceful motion, his hands urging her up along with him. Before she could orient herself, he held her buttocks and lifted her onto the table.

“I mean this,” he said. He slid his hand under her nightshirt and eased off the panties she wore beneath.

He tossed the bit of silk onto the floor and then returned to her, running his rough hands up the length of her thighs. Her knees fell apart, as if they were marionette legs controlled by invisible strings. He went without hesitation to the aching, moist spot he knew so well, and with perfect confidence began to stroke, and press and circle.

She grabbed his shoulders, weak and suddenly dizzy. His fingers were hot, and she was hot, and it felt wonderful and dangerous. It took her breath away.

“Trent,” she said, though the word sounded as if it came out on a choke.

He gazed down at her. She wondered whether she looked as dazed as she felt. He smiled cryptically, and then he bent his head and kissed her on her lips. The touch was sweet and lingering, a strange contrast to the hot domination of his fingers.

“It’s all right, Susannah,” he whispered. “Don’t fight it. Lean back.”

His voice alone controlled her. The cool cork somehow met her back, though her hips were half on, half off the table, her legs dangling helplessly over the edge.

But he took her feet, and gently rested her legs across his shoulders. He carried her, braced her, and she was completely open to him. It felt so right, strangely safe, and her hips began to move on the table, shifting slightly, responding to his fingers.

And then, when she could hardly think, it wasn’t his fingers anymore. It was his mouth, and his tongue and tiny, fiery hints of teeth. And then came dark heat, and the softest, coaxing pull.

He’d never done this to her, no one had ever done it, but it was perfect, like watching fireworks from a river, like being the fireworks and being the river, like pushing and pulling, like coiling and burning, and burning…

And finally the explosion that somehow she knew she had been born for.

When it stopped, she had no idea how long she lay there. She wasn’t sure she’d ever breathe normally again, or sit up or speak. But somehow, little by little, her heart subsided to normal, and she felt reality gathering around her.

She sensed movement, and when she opened her eyes, Trent was sorting out her nightshirt, pulling it down over her thighs. He carefully eased her legs down so that her feet just barely touched the floor.

With one firm hand behind her shoulder, he nudged her to a sitting position.

And then he began to buckle his belt.

“Trent.” She stared at the belt, unable to meet his eyes. “I thought—”

She felt like a child just learning to speak. Her mouth wouldn’t move quite right, and words eluded her.

She watched his cool motions as he pulled himself together and headed for the cellar stairs.

“Good night, Sue.”

He looked so…unmoved. If his lips weren’t slightly swollen, she would think she had imagined the entire experience.

“Trent…”

He turned. “Yes?”

“That’s all? You’re leaving?”

He tilted his watch. “It’s late. I have to be at the Double C by six.”

Though she wished she could think of something sharp to say, her mind still felt too scrambled. “But I thought you—I thought you wanted me to—”

“I guess you thought wrong, Susannah.” He smiled, the classic Trent Maxwell mocking grin. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

* * *

FROM THE WINDOW of his office at the Double C the next morning, Trent watched Alcatraz taking a spin around the paddock.

Trent was supposed to be checking over payroll records, but he’d never been crazy about the paperwork part of his job. Right now he couldn’t take his eyes off the potent combination of sunshine, magnificent quarter horse and wide green pastures.

The scene called to him, making his office feel small and stuffy, his work pointless.

But who was he kidding? This mood hadn’t come over him because his work was dull. The Double C had twenty-five thousand acres for him to patrol, a million issues to deal with—both indoors and out—and a stable of ranch horses to ride whenever he wanted.

No, this itchy dissatisfaction was all about Susannah.

He tapped his foot against the wooden floor and added a syncopated rhythm with his pen. He couldn’t stop thinking about last night—and wondering whether he’d made a serious mistake.

She wouldn’t lightly forgive him for the episode in the cellar. He knew that—he’d known even before he touched her that he’d pay dearly for it.

Susannah had always been a proud woman, determined to be in control of her life, her heart…and her body. Even back when they were in the throes of young love, she’d been self-conscious about the final moment of physical surrender. Today, when she saw him as the enemy, and sex as the battleground, that complete meltdown must have felt like a humiliating defeat.

It had begun as a power trip, he had to admit that. He’d wanted to show her that she wasn’t as indifferent as she pretended to be. He had wanted to force her to admit that she still felt something for him.

But, in the end, the simple desire to touch her, and taste her, had been overpowering. He’d needed that more than he’d needed his own release.

Not that the victory had exactly been an ego boost. Making her catch fire had been about as difficult as setting a match to dry kindling. She’d been ready. Beyond ready. Any man who had touched that pent-up dynamite would have created a similar explosion.

Maybe he should have let her finish what she’d started out to do. If she’d been able to control him, to decide what he’d feel and when, she might have been less resentful. He certainly would have been less frustrated.

Trent unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled back his sleeves, wondering if the air conditioner might be broken. He had to get out of here.

It wasn’t about the urge to find Susannah and stage a repeat of last night.

It wasn’t. He just needed some air.…

Luckily, before he could stand up, the door opened and Chase entered, looking dusty and tired.

Trent settled back into his chair. Saved by the boss.

“We found Blue Boy,” Chase said without preamble. The two men were such old friends that they’d long ago dispensed with formalities. Besides, Trent knew all about the missing horse.

“Where was he?”

“The rascal found a bad piece of fencing out by the west ridge and jumped it.”

“Is he okay?”

Chase dropped onto the comfortable chair opposite the desk and put his feet up with a sigh. “He twisted his right hind leg. Doc says it’s a tendon, not too bad, luckily, so he’ll recover. Out of commission for a while, though.”

Trent shook his head. “Wish I thought it would teach Blue a lesson. He’s too old to go gallivanting.”

Chase chuckled. “No such thing, pal. At least I hope there isn’t.” He yawned happily and scratched at a grass stain on his shirt. Chase was a true Texas blue blood, fifth-generation millionaire, but he loved to get dirty, sneaking away from black tie events to tackle work even his ranch hands hated.

“So. I hear you took a tumble yourself.” Chase lifted his chin, pretending to try to see over the edge of the desk. “Clumsy bastard. How hard is it to stay upright on a ladder?”

“Depends on the ladder,” Trent said with a scowl. “Everything she’s got over there needs fixing. This one was about a hundred years old. The step just gave out under me.”

“That damn girl’s too proud to live.” Chase dusted the knee of his jeans, sending a little cloud of gray Double C dirt into the air. “She can’t ask me to loan her a ladder? She lets her people climb around on a rusted piece of crap?”

“Well…” Trent toyed with his pen. “That’s the weird thing.”

Suddenly, Chase’s yawning, sleepy-eyed manner disappeared. He knew Trent, and he recognized the tone.

“What weird thing?”

“I’m not sure. At first I just assumed, as you did, that the bolts were rotten. But I got to thinking, and I’m not so sure. The ladder fell right beside me, and I was lying there a second or two, staring straight at it.”

“And?”

“I didn’t really put two and two together at the time, being preoccupied with making sure all my body parts still worked. But now that I think back, I’m pretty sure I didn’t see any rust.”

Chase frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. You mean the break was clean?”

“Yeah. Straight. As if someone had cut it in two.”

“Did you go back and take a second look at the ladder?”

“It’s gone. Zander said Susannah had told him to get rid of it ASAP, so he got Eli to shove it into the Dumpster. They already picked it up. They compact it on the spot, you know. That ladder’s history.”

“That is weird.” Chase was quiet a moment. “Anybody else know you were going up to cut branches that day?”

Trent tried to remember who might have heard. He’d mentioned it several times over the past few days. He’d kept meaning to do it, but he kept getting sidetracked.

“Zander knew. And Eli, I guess. And probably that obnoxious Richard Doyle. He’s been at the house three mornings in a row, sucking up to Sue, though he says it’s about the will.”

Chase nodded. “And Sue.”

Trent narrowed his eyes. “What?”

“Sue.” Chase shrugged. “I’m just saying, if you think Doyle knew, then Sue must have told him. So Sue must have known, too.”

Trent decided to ignore that. Chase had played Sherlock Holmes recently, trying to discover the true identity of Josie’s baby’s father, and his success must have gone to his head.

He actually thought Sue might have sabotaged her own ladder?

Some detective.

“Obviously she had opportunity, but still, she did marry you only a week ago.” The corners of Chase’s eyes tilted up. “You’re an irritating son of a gun, but even you couldn’t have turned her homicidal in a week.”

Trent laughed, glad to see that Chase was just joking. “I don’t know. Guess it depends on what old man Everly’s will says about widows.”

He glanced out the window again, as the trainer led Alcatraz back to the stables. What a gorgeous horse he was. He’d been sired by Chase’s father’s favorite quarter horse, Rampage, a stallion who had definitely lived up to his name. The only one of the Fugitive Four who had been allowed to ride Rampage had been Paul, who’d had such a light hand on the reins and whose intuition about horses had been almost perfect.

“Oh. That reminds me. When I visited Peggy Archer last week, I think I mentioned to her that I’d be cutting back some branches at Everly. Not that I’m implying…”

He paused, remembering. “It was a strange visit, Chase. Harrison actually took me outside and warned me about Peggy. Said a lot of bad feelings got stirred up when Susannah and I got married.”

Chase nodded again. “I can imagine. We’re all married now…something Paul will never get a chance to do. That’s gotta be tough. Still…it’s kind of hard to picture Peggy Archer sneaking into Sue’s barn with a hacksaw, don’t you think?”

“Impossible. Till she gets that new hip, Peggy can barely walk from the chair to the door.”

“So…”

They sat in silence a minute, considering the possibilities—which were, in the end, all impossible. The bottom line was, no one could have known that Trent would use that particular ladder on that particular day.

Finally Chase sighed. “Sorry, pal, it’s just too nuts. Nobody’s out to get you. You must have been imagining things.”

“Possibly. I had just hit my head against an oak root the size of a water main.”

“Clumsy bastard,” Chase repeated affectionately. “Still, women love an injured warrior. I hope you at least have the sense to milk those stitches for a little pity sex.”

“Pity sex?” Trent laughed out loud. “For God’s sake, Chase. How desperate do you think I am?”

“On a scale of one to ten?” Grinning, Chase stood up and headed for the door. “I’d say about a thousand.”