Читать книгу Jeopardy: A Game of Chance / Loving Evangeline - Линда Ховард, Linda Howard, Линда Ховард - Страница 16
ОглавлениеA VIRGIN. SUNNY MILLER had been a virgin. He tried to think, when he could think at all, what the possible ramifications were, but none of that seemed important right now. Of far more immediate urgency was how to comfort a woman whose first time had been on a blanket spread over the rough ground, in broad daylight, with a man who hadn’t even taken off his boots.
He lay sprawled on his back beside her on the blanket. She had turned on her side away from him, curling in on herself while visible tremors shook her slender, naked body. Moving was an effort—breathing was an effort—as he pulled off the condom and tossed it away. He had climaxed so violently that he felt dazed. And if it affected him so strongly, with his experience, what was she thinking? Feeling? Had she anticipated the pain, or been shocked by it?
He knew she had climaxed. She had been as aroused as he; when he had started to pull back in stunned realization, she had hooked her legs around his and forced the entry herself. He had seen the shock in her eyes as he penetrated her, felt the reverberations in her flesh. And he had watched her face as he carefully aroused her, holding himself back with ruthless control until he felt the wild clenching of her loins. Then nothing had been able to hold him back, and he had exploded in his own gut-wrenching release.
For a woman of twenty-nine to remain a virgin, she had to have some strongly held reason for doing so. Sunny had willingly, but not lightly, surrendered her chastity to him. He felt humbled, and honored, and he was scared as hell. He hadn’t been easy with her, either in the process or the culmination. At first glance the fact that she had climaxed might make everything all right with her, but he knew better. She didn’t have the experience to handle the sensual violence her body and emotions had endured. She needed holding, and reassuring, until she stopped shaking and regained her equilibrium.
He put his hand on her arm and tugged her over onto her back. She didn’t actively resist, but she was stiff, uncoordinated. She was pale, her eyes unusually brilliant, as if she fought tears. He cradled her head on his arm and leaned over her, giving her the attention and the contact he knew she needed. She glanced quickly up at him, then away, and a surge of color pinkened her cheeks.
He was charmed by the blush. Gently he smoothed his hand up her bare torso, stroking her belly, trailing his fingers over her breasts. The lower curves of her breasts bore the marks of his beard stubble. He soothed them with his tongue, taking care not to add more abrasions, and made a mental note to shave when he washed.
Something needed to be said, but he didn’t know what. He had talked his way into strongholds, drug dens and government offices; he had an uncanny knack for making a lightning assessment of any given person and situation, and then saying exactly the right thing to get the reaction he wanted. But from the moment he had seen Sunny, lust had gotten in the way of his usual expertise. No amount of prep work could have prepared him for the impact of her sparkling eyes and bright smile, or told him he could be so disarmed by a sense of humor. “Sunny” was a very apt nickname for her.
Just now his sunshine was very quiet, almost stricken, as if she regretted their intimacy. And he couldn’t bear it. He had lost count, over the years, of the women who had tried to cling to him after the sex act was finished and he slipped away, both physically and mentally, but he couldn’t bear it that this one woman wasn’t trying to hold him. For some reason, whether this was simply too much too soon or for some deeper reason, she was trying to hold her distance from him. She wasn’t curling in his arms, sighing with repletion; she was retreating behind an invisible wall, the one that had been there from the beginning.
Everything in him rejected the idea. A primitive, possessive rage swept over him. She was his, and he would not let her go. His muscles tightened in a renewed surge of lust, and he mounted her, sliding into the tight, swollen clasp of her sheath. She inhaled sharply, the shock of his entry jarring her out of her malaise. She wedged her hands between them and sank her nails into his chest, but she didn’t try to push him away. Her legs came up almost automatically, wrapping around his hips. He caught her thighs and adjusted them higher, around his waist. “Get used to it,” he said, more harshly than he’d intended. “To me. To this. To us. Because I won’t let you pull away from me.”
Her lips trembled, but he had her full attention now. “Even for your own sake?” she whispered, distress leaching the blue undertones from her eyes and leaving them an empty gray.
He paused for a fraction of a second, wondering if she was referring to her father. “Especially for that,” he replied, and set himself to the sweet task of arousing her. This time was totally for her; he wooed her with a skill that went beyond sexual experience. His extensive training in the martial arts had taught him how to cripple with a touch, kill with a single blow, but it had also taught him all the places on the human body that were exquisitely sensitive to pleasure. The backs of her knees and thighs, the delicate arches of her feet, the lower curve of her buttocks, all received their due attention. Slowly she came alive under him, a growing inner wetness easing his way. She began to move in time with his leisurely thrusts, rising up to meet him. He stroked the cluster of nerves in the small of her back and was rewarded by the reflexive arch that took him deeper into her.
She sighed, her lips parted, her eyes closed. Her cheeks glowed; her lips were puffy and red. He saw all the signs of her arousal and whispered encouragement. Her head tossed to the side, and her hardened nipples stabbed against his chest. Gently, so gently, he bit the tender curve where her neck met her shoulder.
She cried out and began climaxing, her peak catching him by surprise. So did his own. He hadn’t meant to climax, but the delicate inner clench and release of her body sent pleasure roaring through him, bursting out of control.
He tried to stop, tried to withdraw; his body simply wouldn’t obey. Instead, he thrust deep and shuddered wildly as his seed spurted from him into the hot, moist depths of her. He heard his own deep, rough cry; then both time and thought stopped, and all that was left of him sank down on her in a heavy sprawl.
Shadow had crept across the canyon floor when he wrapped her in the blanket and carried her back to the sheltering overhang. The surrounding rock blocked the sun during the day, but it also absorbed its heat so that at night, when the temperature dropped, it was noticeably warmer in their snug little niche than it was outside. Sunny yawned, drowsy with satisfaction, and rested her head on his shoulder. “I can walk,” she said mildly, though she made no effort to slide her feet to the ground.
“Hey, I’m doing my macho act here,” he protested. “Don’t ruin it.”
She tilted her head back to look at him. “You aren’t acting, though, are you?”
“No,” he admitted, and earned a chuckle from her.
Time had gotten away from him while they drifted in the sleepy aftermath of passion. The sun was so far down in the sky that only the upper rim of the canyon was lit, the reds and golds and purples of the rock catching fire in the sunset, while the sky had taken on a deep violet hue.
“I’m going to check the traps while there’s still a few minutes of light left,” he said as he deposited her on the ground. “Sit tight. I won’t be long.”
Sunny sat tight for about two seconds after he disappeared from view, then bounced to her feet. Quickly she washed and dressed, needing the protection of her clothing. She had the uneasy feeling that nothing was the same as it had been before Chance carried her out into the sunlight. She had been prepared for the lovemaking, but not for that overwhelming assault on her senses. She had hoped for pleasure, and instead found something so much more powerful that she couldn’t control it.
And most of all, Chance had revealed himself for the marauder he was.
She had seen glimpses of it before, in moments when the force of his personality broke through his control. She should have realized then; one didn’t bolt a steel gate on an empty room. His control had given her the rare, luxurious feeling of safety, and she had been so beguiled that she had ignored the power that gate held constrained, or what would happen if it ever broke loose. This afternoon, she had found out.
He had said he’d been in the Army Rangers. That should have told her everything she needed to know about the kind of man he was. She could only think she’d let the stress of the situation, and her worry about Margreta, blind her to his true nature.
A shiver rippled down her spine, a totally sensual reaction as she remembered the tumultuous hour—or hours—on the blanket. She had been helpless, totally blindsided by the force of her reaction. She had known from the beginning that she responded to him as she never had before to any man, but she still hadn’t been prepared for such a complete upheaval of her senses. He wasn’t the only one accustomed to control; her very life had depended on her control of any given situation, and with Chance, she had found that she couldn’t control either him or herself.
She had never been more terrified in her life.
The way she had felt about him before was nothing compared to now. It wasn’t just the sex, which had been so much more intense and harsh than she had ever imagined. No, it was the part of his character he had revealed, the part that he had tried to keep hidden, that called to her so strongly she knew only her own death would end the love she felt for him. Chance was one of a very special breed of men, a warrior. All the little pieces of him she had sensed were now settled into place, forming the picture of a man who would always have something wild and ruthless inside him, a man willing to put himself at risk, step into the line of fire, to protect what he loved. He was the complete antithesis of her father, whose life was devoted wholly to destruction.
Sunny hadn’t had a choice in a lot of the sacrifices of her life. Their mother had given her and Margreta away in an effort to save them, but hadn’t been able to completely sever herself from her daughters’ lives. Instead, she had taught them all her hard-learned skills, taught them how to hide, to disappear—and, if necessary, how to fight. By necessity, Pamela Vickery Hauer had become an expert in her own brand of guerrilla warfare. Whenever she thought it safe she would visit, and the kindly Millers would go out of their way to give her time with her girls.
When Sunny was sixteen, Pamela’s luck had finally run out. Their father’s network was extensive, and he had many more resources at his disposal than his fugitive wife could command. Logically, it had been only a matter of time before he found her. And when she was finally run to ground, Pamela had killed herself rather than take the chance he would, by either torture or drugs, be able to wring their location from her.
That was Sunny’s legacy, a life living in shadows, and a courageous mother who had killed herself in order to protect her children. No one had asked her if this was the life she wanted; it was the life she had, so she had made the best of it she could.
Nor had it been her choice to live apart from Margreta; that had been her sister’s decision. Margreta was older; she had her own demons to fight, her own battles to wage, and she had never been as adept at the survival skills taught by their mother as Sunny had been. So Sunny had lost her sister, and when the Millers died, first Hal and then Eleanor, she had been totally alone. The calls on her cell phone from Margreta were the only contact she had, and she knew Margreta was content to leave it at that.
She didn’t think she had the strength to give up Chance, too. That was why she was terrified to the point of panic, because her very presence endangered his life. Her only solace was that because he was the man he was, he was very tough and capable, more able to look after himself.
She took a deep breath, trying not to anticipate trouble. If and when they got out of this canyon, then she would decide what to do.
Because she was too nervous to sit still, she checked the clothes she had washed out and found they were already dry. She gathered them off the various rocks where they had spread them, and though the little chore had taken only minutes, by the time she walked back to the overhang there was barely enough light for her to see.
Chance hadn’t taken the flashlight with him, she remembered. It was a moonless night; if he didn’t get back within the next few minutes, he wouldn’t be able to see.
The fire had been kept smoldering all day, to maximize the smoke and conserve their precious store of wood, but now she quickly added more sticks to bring up a good blaze, both for her own sake and so he would have the fire as a beacon. The flickering firelight penetrated the darkness of the overhang, sending patterns dancing against the rock wall. She searched through their belongings until she found the flashlight, to have it at hand in case she had to search for him.
Total blackness came suddenly, as if Mother Nature had dropped her petticoats over the land. Sunny stepped to the front of the overhang. “Chance!” she called, then paused to listen.
The night wasn’t silent. There were rustlings, the whispers of the night things as they crept about their business. A faint breeze stirred the scrub brush, sounding like dry bones rattling together. She listened carefully, but didn’t hear an answering call.
“Chance!” She tried again, louder this time. Nothing. “Damn it,” she muttered, and flashlight in hand set off for the deep end of the canyon where their life-giving water trickled out of a crack in the rock.
She walked carefully, checking where she put her feet. A second encounter with a snake was more than she could handle in one day. As she walked she periodically called his name, growing more irritated by the moment. Why didn’t he answer her? Surely he could hear her by now; sound carried in the thin, dry air.
A hard arm caught her around the waist and swung her up against an equally hard body. She shrieked in alarm, the sound cut off by a warm, forceful mouth. Her head tilted back under the pressure, and she grabbed his shoulders for support. He took his time, teasing her with his tongue, kissing her until the tension left her body and she was moving fluidly against him.
When he lifted his head his breathing was a little ragged. Sunny felt obliged to complain about his treatment of her. “You scared me,” she accused, though her voice sounded more sultry than sulky.
“You got what you deserved. I told you to sit tight.” He kissed her again, as if he couldn’t help himself.
“Is this part of the punishment?” she murmured when he came up for air.
“Yeah,” he said, and she felt him smile against her temple.
“Do it some more.”
He obliged, and she felt the magic fever begin burning again deep inside her. She ached all over from his previous lovemaking; she shouldn’t feel even a glimmer of desire so soon, and yet she did. She wanted to feel all the power of his superbly conditioned body, take him inside her and hold him close, feel him shake as the pleasure overwhelmed him just as it did her.
Finally he tore his mouth from hers, but she could feel his heart pounding against her, feel the hard ridge in his jeans. “Have mercy,” he muttered. “I won’t have a chance to starve to death. I’m going to die of exhaustion.”
Starving reminded her of the traps, because she was very hungry. “Did you catch a rabbit?” she asked, her tone full of hope.
“No rabbit, just a scrawny bird.” He held up his free hand, and she saw that he held the plucked carcass of a bird that was quite a bit smaller than the average chicken.
“That isn’t the Roadrunner, is it?”
“What’s this thing you have with imaginary animals? No, it isn’t a roadrunner. Try to be a little more grateful.”
“Then what is it?”
“Bird,” he said succinctly. “After I spit it and turn it over the flames for a while, it’ll be roasted bird. That’s all that matters.”
Her stomach growled. “Well, okay. As long as it isn’t the Roadrunner. He’s my favorite cartoon character. After Bullwinkle.”
He began laughing. “When did you see those old cartoons? I didn’t think they were on anywhere now.”
“They’re all on disk,” she said. “I rented them from my local video store.”
He took her arm, and they began walking back to camp, chatting and laughing about their favorite cartoons. They both agreed that the slick animated productions now couldn’t match the older cartoons for sheer comedy, no matter how realistic the modern ones were. Sunny played the flashlight beam across their path as they walked, watching for snakes.
“By the way, why were you calling me?” Chance asked suddenly.
“It’s dark, in case you didn’t notice. You didn’t carry the flashlight with you.”
He made a soft, incredulous sound. “You were coming to rescue me?”
She felt a little embarrassed. Of course, a former ranger could find his way back to camp in the dark. “I wasn’t thinking,” she admitted.
“You were thinking too much,” he corrected, and hugged her to his side.
They reached their little camp. The fire she had built up was still sending little tongues of flame licking around the remnants of the sticks. Chance laid the bird on a rock, swiftly fashioned a rough spit from the sticks and sharpened the end of another stick with his pocket knife. He skewered the bird with that stick, and set it in the notches of the spit, then added some small sticks to the fire. Soon the bird was dripping sizzling juice into the flames, which leaped higher in response. The delicious smell of cooking meat made her mouth water.
She shoved a flat rock closer to the fire and sat down, watching him turn the bird. She was close enough to feel the heat on her arms; as chilly as the night was already, it was difficult to remember that just a few short hours ago the heat had been scorching. She had camped out only once before, but the circumstances had been nothing like this. For one thing, she had been alone.
The amber glow of the flames lit the hard angles of his face. He had washed up while he was gone, she saw; his hair was still a little damp. He had shaved, too. She smiled to herself.
He looked up and saw her watching him, and a wealth of knowledge, of sensual awareness, flashed between them. “Are you all right?” he asked softly.
“I’m fine.” She had no idea how her face glowed as she wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on her drawn-up knees.
“Are you bleeding?”
“Not now. And it was only a little, at first,” she added hastily when his eyes narrowed in concern.
He returned his gaze to the bird, watching as he carefully turned it. “I wish I had known.”
She wished he didn’t know now. The reasons for her recently lost virginity weren’t something she wanted to dissect. “Why?” she asked, injecting a light note into her tone. “Would you have been noble and stopped?”
“Hell, no,” he said. “I’d have gone about it a little differently, is all.”
Now, that was interesting. “What would have been different?”
“How rough I was. How long I took.”
“You took long enough,” she assured him, smiling. “Both times.”
“I could have made it better for you.”
“How about for you?”
His dark gaze flashed upward, and he gave a rueful smile. “Sweetheart, if it had been any better for me, my heart would have given out.”
“Ditto.”
He turned the bird again. “I didn’t wear a condom the second time.”
“I know.” The evidence had been impossible to miss.
Their gazes met and locked again, and again they were linked by that silent communication. He might have made her pregnant. He knew it, and she knew it.
“How’s the timing?”
She rocked her hand back and forth. “Borderline.” The odds were in their favor, she figured, but it wasn’t a risk she wanted to take again.
“If we weren’t stuck here—” he began, then shrugged.
“What?”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
Desire surged through her, and she almost jumped his bones right then. She got a tight grip on herself, literally, and fought to stay seated. Hormones were sneaky devils, she thought, ready to undermine her common sense just because he mentioned wanting to make her pregnant.
“Neither would I,” she admitted, and watched to see if he had the same reaction. Color flared high on his carved cheekbones, and a muscle in his jaw flexed. His hand tightened on the spit until his knuckles were white. Yep, it went both ways, she thought, fascinated by his battle to remain where he was.
When he judged the bird was done, he took the skewer off the spit and kicked another rock over to rest beside hers, then sat down on it. With his pocket knife he cut a strip of meat and held it out to her. “Careful, don’t burn yourself,” he warned as she reached eagerly for the meat.
She juggled the strip back and forth in her hands, blowing on it to cool it. When she could hold it, she took her first tentative bite. Her taste buds exploded with the taste of wood and smoke and roasted fowl. “Oh, that’s good,” she moaned, chewing slowly to get every ounce of flavor.
Chance cut off a strip for himself and took his first bite, looking as satisfied as she with their meal. They chewed in silence for a while. He was careful to divide the meat equally, until she was forced to stop eating way before she was satisfied. He was so much bigger than she was that if they each ate the same amount, he would be short-changed.
He knew what she was doing, of course. “You’re taking care of me again,” he observed. “You’re hell on my image, you know that? I’m supposed to be taking care of you.”
“You’re a lot bigger than I am. You need larger portions.”
“Let me worry about the food, sweetheart. We won’t starve. There’s more game to catch, and tomorrow I’ll look for some edible plants to round out our diet.”
“Bird and bush,” she said lightly. “What all the trendy people are eating these days.”
Her quip made him grin. He persuaded her to eat a little more of the meat, then they finished off one of the remaining nutrition bars. Their hunger appeased, they began getting ready to turn in for the night.
He banked the fire while she got the tent ready. They brushed their teeth and made one last nature call, just like old married folks, she thought in amusement. Their “home” wasn’t much, really nothing more than a niche in the rock, but their preparations for the night struck her as very domestic—until he said, “Do you want to wear my shirt tonight? It would be more like a nightgown on you than the shirt you’re wearing.”
There was nothing the least bit tamed in the way he was looking at her. Her heartbeat picked up in speed, and the now familiar heat began spreading through her. That was all he had to do, she thought; one look and she was aroused. He had taught her body well during the short time she had been sprawled beneath him on the blanket. Now that she knew exactly how it felt to take his hard length inside her, she craved the sensation. She wanted that convulsive peak of pleasure, even though it had frightened her with its intensity. She hadn’t realized she would feel as if she were flying apart, as if her soul was being wrenched from her body. In a blinding, paralyzing moment of clarity, she knew that no other man in the world would be able to do that for her, to her. He was the One for her, capital O, big letter, underlined and italicized. The One. She would never again be whole without him.
