Читать книгу Secrets and Lies: He's A Bad Boy / He's Just A Cowboy - Lisa Jackson - Страница 12

CHAPTER THREE

JACKSON WAS WEAK FROM the fight. By the time they turned from the beach and reentered the woods, he was limping badly and breathing hard. Even in the darkness, Rachelle could see the sweat standing on his face.

“We’ve got to get to the main road and hitchhike back to town,” Rachelle said as he pulled up and braced his back against the rough trunk of a pine tree. He drew in a ragged breath, then placed his hands on his knees and lowered his head. “Come on,” she urged.

“You want to take a chance on being picked up by Roy or one of his friends?” Jackson asked. He tilted his head to stare up at her in the darkness. His eyes were dark and unreadable—as black as the night that surrounded them. He swiped the back of his hand over his forehead. “Isn’t that what got you into this mess in the first place?”

“You can’t go much farther.”

His lips twisted ironically. “Don’t count me out yet. Come on, I’ve got an idea.” He took her hand and led her at a slower pace through the forest. Trees snapped underfoot, and rain dripped in a steady staccato on a carpet of needles.

The night was so dark, she could barely pick a path; she continually stepped in mud and puddles. Her hair was drenched and she shivered as the wind whistled through the trees. Clutching her ripped clothes with her free hand, she didn’t stop to think where they were going; she wanted only to keep moving and put as much distance between Roy Fitzpatrick and herself as she could.

She wondered about Jackson’s timing, how he’d found her with Roy in the gazebo. “Why were you at the party?” she asked.

“Fitzpatrick and I had some unfinished business.”

“Is it finished now?”

He snorted. “I don’t think it ever will be.”

“Why does he hate you so much?”

Jackson threw her a dark glance. “Maybe he doesn’t like me interrupting him when he thought he was going to score.”

Rachelle felt as if she’d been slapped. “What’re you talking about?”

“I didn’t see what started it. But somehow you ended up alone with Roy. The way I figure it, you flirted with him, he responded and when things got a little too hot to handle, you panicked.”

Rachelle’s mouth tightened in indignation. “I went out there to get my friend’s purse.”

“And somehow ended up making out with him.”

She stopped, breathing hard, her anger as bright as her tears. “You have no right to judge me. No right. I didn’t tease or lead Roy on, if that’s what you’re hinting at. And anyway it doesn’t matter. He attacked me. I said ‘no’ and he wouldn’t listen. Look, you don’t have to babysit me any longer. I can find my own way back to town.”

He glanced at her, muttered something under his breath and sighed. “I guess I made a mistake.”

“I guess you did.” They stood staring at each other, the rain drizzling around them, their gazes locked. The woods smelled steamy and wet, and far in the distance the sound of music hummed through the trees.

Jackson grimaced. “I got to the party, decided that I needed to cool off before I made an ass of myself with Roy, so I walked down toward the lake. I heard noises in the gazebo. When I got there, Roy was kissing you. I couldn’t tell you were fighting back until you screamed.”

He glanced away, his hands on his hips. “Look, I’m sorry. I just figured anyone who was with Roy and his crowd was asking for trouble.”

She couldn’t argue with that. Hadn’t she, too, decided the very same thing? “I’m not a part of Roy’s crowd.”

“Just who are you?”

“A friend of Laura’s, Rachelle Tremont.”

Eyeing her for a moment, he said, “We don’t have any time to lose. Come on, Rachelle.” He took her hand again and they began picking their way through the undergrowth.

“Where’re we going?” she whispered. She’d lost her sense of direction, but she felt as if they were circling back, heading toward Roy’s party.

“I know a shortcut,” he said. His grip tightened around hers and she felt as if the blood were all pooled in her hand. Jackson was wheezing a little, wincing each time he stepped on his right leg.

“You can’t go on—”

“Shh!” he warned so loudly that some unseen creature scurried through the undergrowth.

Rachelle’s heart was pounding in her ears, but she knew she was right. Closer than before, she heard the sound of voices and the gentle vibration of music. Jackson was leading them right back to Roy!

“You’ve got to be out of your mind!” she whispered.

“Maybe,” he admitted with a sarcastic edge to his words. “But I don’t think so.”

They skirted the Fitzpatrick estate, staying in the trees that surrounded the thick stone walls. When they came to the private lane, Jackson hesitated, his muscles taut, his gaze moving swiftly through the forest. “Okay. Now,” he whispered, half dragging her out of the cover of the woods to dash across the road and into the trees on the far side. They were heading east now, and the lake was visible through the trees. Dark and shimmering, the water rippled with the wind.

Rachelle’s throat was dry and her body ached all over. Rain ran down her neck and seeped through her jacket. It seemed that they’d been wandering through the dripping trees for hours.

Jackson stopped for a second and rubbed his leg. Even in the darkness, she noticed the corners of his mouth turn white. “You need a doctor.”

“I just need to rest awhile,” he argued, taking her hand again and hobbling toward the lake. She followed him blindly, her fate in the hands of the bad boy from Gold Creek.

“Here we go,” Jackson said as they used the beach to get past the fence that separated the estate and a huge house came into view.

“What’s this?”

“The Monroe place.”

She’d heard of it; a grand house that had stood empty during the winters when the Monroe family returned to San Francisco. “I don’t think we should stop here,” she said aloud, worrying, but Jackson had already run to the manor and was standing in a breezeway between the house and garage.

“No one will think we’d have the guts to stay so close to the party,” he reasoned aloud. “They saw us take off in the opposite direction.”

“But—”

“Stay here,” he ordered, then checked all the doors and windows on the first floor.

“You’re going to break in?”

“If they left it locked.”

“But that’s illegal.”

Jackson sent her a glance that called her naive. “We won’t get caught.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“No, it doesn’t. So you go ahead and stand here in the rain and figure out what else we’re gonna do. In the meantime, I’ll be looking for a way into this place.”

He disappeared around the corner, and Rachelle shivered. She thought of Roy, how he’d tried to force her, and her stomach turned over. She’d been stupid and foolish and now, here she was, in the middle of nowhere, with a boy whose reputation was tarnished, breaking into the summer home of a wealthy family!

She’d wanted adventure, she’d longed to test her wings, and those very wings were about as sturdy as Icarus’s had been against the heat of the sun. She’d plummeted in a downfall so great, she knew she’d crash and never find herself again.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she considered her options. Maybe Jackson was right. If they could just rest and warm up, then they could decide what to do. Inside the house, there could be a phone; she might be able to call her mother. Her stomach tightened at facing Ellen Tremont, or her friends again. What had happened to Carlie and Laura? What were they doing right now? Were they worried sick about her?

She heard a noise on the roof and her heart nearly stopped. Moving out of the cover of the breezeway, she looked up. Jackson had shimmied up the drainpipe and was working his way across the rain-slickened shakes to a window. She held her breath and crossed her fingers that he didn’t slip, fall and break his stubborn neck. He rattled one lock, swore and moved to the next window. It, too, seemed shut tight.

To Rachelle’s horror, he worked up the slope to the third story, where dormers protruded from the roof. At the second window, he stopped, withdrew something from his pocket, worked on the lock until with a sound of splintering wood, it gave way. A second later, he climbed through.

Great. Not only had they trespassed, but now they were breaking and entering. She waited impatiently, certain that someone from Roy’s party would wander by and discover her. A full five minutes passed and she started to worry again. Had Jackson hurt himself, fallen down the stairs in the dark?

A lock clicked softly. The back door swung inward and Jackson stood with his back propping the door open, obviously pleased with himself.

She didn’t wait for an invitation, but slipped inside, where some of the heat of the day had collected. They stood in the kitchen, dripping water onto the oak floor, listening to an old clock tick and the timbers creak. The furniture was covered in white sheets, and if she let herself, she could imagine that this particular house was haunted.

“Now what?” she asked him, suddenly aware that she was completely alone with him.

“We need a flashlight. The electricity’s been turned off and I wouldn’t want to use any lights anyway. Someone might see us and call the cops.”

“No one will see us,” she said, thinking how remote they were.

“Wrong. There’s a marina across the lake and the bait-and-tackle shop. Someone over there could glance this way, see a light that shouldn’t be on and get nervous.” He opened a cupboard and ran his fingers over the contents of the shelves, grunted, then started with the next cupboard. Before too long, he’d covered half the kitchen.

“This isn’t going to work—”

“Hold on. What’s this?” he asked, and she could hear the grin in his voice. “A candle. Primitive. But just the ticket.”

He struck a match. It sizzled in the night, and in the small flame she could see his face, streaked with mud, a hint of beard darkening his chin, and the reflection of the match’s flame as pinpoints of light in his dark eyes.

Carefully he lit the candle, then searched in the closet for more. Soon he had lit three candles and the kitchen seemed almost cheery in the flickering golden light.

“Aren’t you afraid someone might see the candlelight?” she asked, but he shook his head.

“There’s a den near the front of the house. It doesn’t face the lake or the Fitzpatrick place. The blinds are already drawn. I think we’ll be safe. If not—” He looked at her again and this time his gaze lingered a second longer than it should have. He shifted. “If not, we’ll just have to face the music.”

“We could call—”

“I tried. The phone’s shut off.”

“Wonderful,” she murmured sarcastically, trembling inside. Things were going from bad to worse. “So what do we do?”

Jackson leaned one hip against the kitchen island. His hair was wet, golden drops ran down his face and neck. “I guess we wait, try to dry out and then figure out a way to get back to town. I imagine that if you don’t show up somewhere at sometime, your folks will send out a search party.”

Rachelle lifted a shoulder. “My mom works nights and I’m supposed to be staying overnight with Laura. My sister is with a friend. So no one’s looking for me yet.”

“What about your dad?”

That old knot in her stomach squeezed tighter. “He, um, he won’t know. He and Mom are separated and he’s living in an apartment in Coleville.” She didn’t add that he was probably with his girlfriend, a woman only a few years older than Rachelle. Glenda. Her father had found Glenda in the middle of his life and had decided that Ellen could raise the girls. He had living to do. “No one will call him,” she said, trying to avoid thinking about her dad.

“But Laura’s mother might call yours.”

“I suppose.”

Again Jackson looked at her and one side of his mouth lifted a fraction. “It’s not so bad having someone who cares for you, you know. Believe me, it’s better than the alternative.”

Rachelle felt suddenly foolish. His mother probably had never cared when he came home and he’d never had a dad to worry over him or scold him or play catch with him or take him fishing.

He left the kitchen and, walking stiffly, holding on to the wall for support, headed for the den. Rachelle followed, carrying two candles and noticing how he favored his right leg. His jeans were soaked and streaked with mud, and the worn fabric clung to his thighs and buttocks as he limped down a short hallway. She forced her eyes away from his legs and found herself staring at the back of his battered old jacket, wide at the shoulders, tapered to the waist.

Over the scent of melting wax were the stronger smells of rain and musk and leather.

He placed his candle on the mantel of a river-rock fireplace and turned to face her.

She was shivering, her feet ice-cold in her wet boots. A crease formed between his brows, and he rubbed his chin. “You’re freezing.”

“A little.”

“A lot. So am I.” He checked the blinds again, closed the door to the room and then leaned over the fireplace. “I guess we’d better find a way to warm up.” He reached into the chimney and pulled, opening a creaking damper and causing soot to billow onto the grate.

There were already logs piled on old andirons and newspaper and kindling neatly stacked in a box near the hearth. He bent on one knee and set to work.

Rachelle tried not to stare at him. “Isn’t starting a fire asking for trouble?”

“Begging for it.”

“Seriously.”

“Maybe.” He grabbed his candle and pressed the flame to the dry kindling and paper. In a few seconds the fire was popping and hissing, shooting out sparks and slowly warming the room. “Come over here,” Jackson suggested, but Rachelle didn’t dare move. She felt trapped in the seductive glow of the blaze, held prisoner by a man she found fascinating yet frightening.

To her horror, he stripped off his jacket, then his shirt. He hung his clothes over the screen and was left standing, half-naked, the golden light playing upon his dark skin and black thatch of hair at his neck. The wound to his shoulder had already stopped bleeding. He winced a little as he moved his arm.

“I—I can’t do that,” she pointed out, and he grinned—not the sardonic smile that twisted his lips cruelly, but a genuine smile of amusement.

“We’ll figure something out. At least take off your boots.”

That, she could do. So she balanced herself on the edge of a couch and tugged on her boots. Her skirt was torn in spots where thorns had caught in the folds and her blouse was in tatters. Her jacket was in better shape, but wet all the way through. She kicked her boots onto the hearth, then self-consciously hung her jacket over the screen.

She felt every bit the virgin she was. She’d seen boys without their shirts before—many times while swimming at the lake or watching them scrimmage in basketball—but they had been boys, with smooth skin and only the smallest suggestion of body hair. Jackson, on the other hand, was a man. His muscles were developed and moved with corded strength, and his beard was dark against his jaw. The way his jeans hugged his hips, hanging low enough to expose his navel, caused her diaphragm to constrict. The back of her throat went dry, and she had to force her eyes away from the raveling waistband of his jeans.

His voice jerked her from her wicked thoughts. “I’ll see if there’s something around here that you can wear, so that that—” he pointed to her ripped blouse “—can dry out.”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it?” He lifted a brow in disbelief. “We’re in enough trouble as it is. I don’t want to be responsible if you get pneumonia.”

“I won’t.”

“And I don’t want to get caught with you in something that was obviously torn from your body.”

“Oh.” She licked her lips nervously, aware that his gaze followed the movement. “Well, uh, I don’t want to get caught—period.”

“Amen.” He limped out of the room and Rachelle let out her breath. Good Lord, what was she doing here? If she had any sense at all, she’d grab her boots and jacket and flee.

To where?

Anywhere! Any other place had to be safer than here, alone with Jackson. Her thoughts had turned so wanton that she was shocked. She, who had never much enjoyed being kissed. All that fumbling and groping and panting. She’d thought something was wrong with her because she’d never been “turned on” as some of the girls had confided. She’d wondered about the girls who said they’d trembled because they wanted to sleep with their boyfriends so badly.

Well, Rachelle had never been in love and her parents were a fine example of how love didn’t work out. As for sex, Ellen Tremont had been embarrassed by the subject and had given her daughters minimal information on the subject. But Rachelle had learned a lot. From her friends. From the books she read. From movies. And she knew that something was wrong with her. Because she didn’t want it.

Or at least she didn’t think she did. Until now. For the first time in her life, she knew what her friends meant by thudding heartbeats and sweaty palms and a crackle of excitement—an electrical charge—between two people.

But Jackson Moore? Why not someone safe like Joe Knapp or Bobby Kramer? Someone who wouldn’t intimidate her.

She was still standing in front of the fire, heating the backs of her legs and holding her blouse together when he returned with a couple of blankets. “No clothes,” he said, and she accepted the blanket and tucked it over her shoulders.

“I’ll be fine.”

He smiled then and shook his head. “If either of us get out of this and are ‘fine,’ it’ll be a miracle.” She was suddenly so aware of him…of his maleness that she couldn’t look at him and felt tongue-tied, though she was beginning to warm a little.

From the corner of her eye, she watched him. Half boy, half man and thoroughly fascinating.

He flopped onto the couch, then sucked in a sharp breath as he attempted to struggle to a sitting position. But his knee, stiffening, wouldn’t bend. His face turned white with the effort, and he fell onto the cushions, wincing when his shoulder connected with the back of the couch.

“Your leg. It’s hurting you and your shoulder…”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You should see a doctor.”

“I said I’m okay.”

Rachelle wasn’t convinced. Every time he moved, he blanched. “You’re a lousy liar.” She glanced down at his jeans and felt sick. A dark stain colored the fabric stretching across his knee.

“So sue me.”

“Let me look at your leg.”

He offered her a lazy, pained smile. “Why, Miss Tremont,” he mocked, “are you suggesting that I drop trou?”

“No, I—”

“That’s a new one on me,” he cut in, “but if you insist—” He made a big show of sliding the top button of his waistband through its hole and she knew that he was expecting her to yell “stop,” but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Her heart was beating faster than the wings of a bird in flight but she watched, her fingers clenched tight in the folds of the blanket.

His gaze still pinned on her face, he yanked at the worn fabric and a series of buttons released with a ripple of pops. Rachelle’s breath seemed to stop.

Despite his pain, his lips twitched in amusement.

Rachelle was certain he wouldn’t go any further, yet she stared at him as he squirmed, lifting up his buttocks and sliding his pants down his leg with a grimace and groan of pain. For the first time in her life she saw a man in white briefs and she forced her eyes away from the bulge that was apparent between his legs.

“You could help me, you know. This was your idea.”

“You want me to help you take off your pants? No way.” The thought of grabbing that wet fabric, the tips of her fingers grazing his legs and hips brought a blush to her cheeks. He was injured, she told herself, she should help him, but she stood near the fireplace as if cast in stone. It wasn’t a simple situation of patient and nurse; there were emotions charging the air, sensual impulses that she’d never felt before but recognized as sexual. Her insides quivered—in fear or anticipation—before she saw the gash that started above his knee and swept over the joint to dig deep into the flesh of his calf. Blood was crusted around the cut and her stomach turned over.

“That’s horrible.”

“One word for it,” he said. His pants would go no further as he was still wearing black leather boots. Without a word, she grabbed one boot by its run-down heel and tugged, inching the wet leather off his swollen leg. The sturdy cowhide had spared his lower calf from further injury, but still the cut looked painful.

“Nice guy, Roy Fitzpatrick,” Jackson mocked.

“A prince.” She yanked off the other boot, and it slid off to the floor with a clunk. To keep busy, she set both boots by the fire, then turned to find him, nearly naked, staring up at her.

“What now?”

“You should go to a hospital, then press charges against Roy at the police station,” she said flatly, still keeping her distance.

“Oh, sure. Like the cops would believe me.”

“You had witnesses.”

“Who will all say I started the fight, provoked Roy into it.”

“I won’t,” she whispered, biting her lower lip. “I was there, Jackson. I know what happened.”

“Our words against the son of Thomas Fitzpatrick. Do you know who the chief of police in Gold Creek is?” he asked, and Rachelle’s heart did a nosedive. “So you do. Vern Kyllo. Thomas Fitzpatrick helped elect him. Vern’s Thomas’s wife’s cousin or something like that. Anyway, there’s no way Chief Kyllo is going to let anything happen to Roy.”

“But Roy attacked you and me!”

Jackson shot her a look that called her a fool. “You’re going to stand up to the Fitzpatricks?”

“Yes!”

He smiled and shook his head. “Then you’ll lose.”

“Someone’s got to stand up to them.”

“I just wouldn’t want to see you hurt.” His gaze touched hers, and for a crazy second her heart took flight. Her face was suddenly hot. “I’ve got a bone to pick with Roy. You don’t—”

“I do after tonight!”

“I know, but if you start yelling ‘attempted rape,’ you’ll be in for a lot of trouble.”

“You mean no one will believe me.”

His gaze touched hers. “It’ll be tough.”

“But you believe me, don’t you?” Suddenly it was important that Jackson know the truth.

“Yeah, but I’m the only person in this damn town who sees Roy for what he is.” He reached forward and touched her hand. “I’m sorry for that crack earlier—I know you didn’t tease Fitzpatrick into attacking you.” His fingers were warm and gentle. “I was just angry. It bothers me that you were with him.”

“It does?” She bit her lip, her heart pounding as his fingers linked with hers.

“You’re better than Roy, Rachelle. Better than the whole lot of Fitzpatricks. Don’t let any of them get to you.”

“I—I won’t,” she said as he dropped her hand.

Her heart was thudding so loudly she was sure he could hear it. “I—I’ll go look for something to clean up your leg,” she said, suddenly needing air.

Jackson flopped back on the couch, and for the first time she noticed that the water on his face wasn’t all raindrops. There was sweat beading against his upper lip and forehead and his teeth were clenched tight. Against pain. He’d only been keeping up a good front for her.

Using candlelight as her guide, she explored the downstairs, found a bathroom off the kitchen and discovered not only scissors, iodine and cotton balls, but gauze and tape, as well. She didn’t know the first thing about binding wounds and warding off infection and whether or not a person would need stitches, but decided to be prepared for anything.

However, nothing could have readied her for the sight of Jackson lying on his back, eyes closed, firelight playing upon his bare chest, arms and legs. Black, straight lashes touched his hard-edged cheekbones and his wet hair was drying in a thick tangled thatch that fell over his forehead. The corners of the room were in shadow, and the room smelled of burning cedar and baking leather. Warm. Cozy. The sound of rain pelting the windows and wind rattling old shutters only added to the feeling of home. For the first time that night she felt safe.

Which was ridiculous, considering the circumstances.

She was alone, cut off from the world with the sexiest boy she’d ever met and all her emotions were on edge—tangled and confused. Her pulse was out of control when he opened one eye and slid his gaze her way.

“I’m not much of a nurse,” she said.

“Probably better than I am.”

“There’s no water,” she said, “but I suppose that the iodine will do.”

Nervous couldn’t begin to describe how she felt as she balanced on the edge of the couch, turned slightly and, with visibly shaking fingers, swabbed the cut with the dark liquid that turned yellow against Jackson’s skin. He sucked in a swift breath and caught her wrist between steely fingers.

“Damn it, woman! What’re you trying to do, burn a hole clean through me?”

“Of course it burns. That’s how you know it’s working,” she replied, though she was only repeating her grandmother’s words from long ago.

“Then it’s working like crazy.” He let go of her wrist. “Least you could’ve done is give me a bullet to bite or something.”

She almost laughed. Except she had to touch him again. Carefully she washed the cut again. Jackson flinched and ground his teeth together, his muscles tightening reflexively, but he didn’t try to stop her.

The gash began to ooze more blood. Rachelle’s stomach roiled. “I don’t think this is working.”

“Sure it is,” he assured her through gritted teeth. “Just finish cleaning it and wrap the damned thing up.”

“You need a doctor.”

“Not when I’ve got you, Florence Nightingale.”

She caught his eye and knew that he was trying to lighten the mood. “Give me a break,” she muttered, but started wrapping gauze around a muscular leg covered with tanned skin and surprisingly soft black hair. She tried not to notice that her heart was thundering, that her insides had seemed to melt or that the little bit of heat climbing up her neck had seemed to start in a deep part of her that heretofore had been unexplored. She concentrated on her work, closing the skin and stopping the flow of blood, and refused to let her eyes wander upward past the slash that started on his thigh to his shorts and what lay beneath the thin fabric.

Being here alone with him was madness. She bandaged his shoulder, but the wound wasn’t as deep as that on his leg. “We have to find a way out of here,” she said. “You really do need a doctor.”

“I’ll be okay.”

“Will you?” She tried to smile, but couldn’t. “I don’t know if, after tonight, either one of us will ever be okay again,” she said, repeating the sentiments he’d expressed earlier. When he didn’t reply, she moved off the couch and threw another chunk of wood onto the fire.

She started to explore a bit then, feeling his gaze upon her as she poked into a bookcase that covered one wall. Below the rows and rows of volumes were cupboard doors, and within the cupboard was an old quilt, hand-stitched and lovingly worn in places. “Just what you need,” she said, withdrawing the blanket and shaking out its neat folds. “Voilà. Comfort and modesty all in one fell swoop.” With a flourish, she snapped the comforter in the air and let it drift down over the couch to cover Jackson’s long body.

“Does it bother you?”

“What?”

“The fact that I’m undressed.”

“What do you think?” She couldn’t even look at him then; the conversation was far too intimate.

“Haven’t you ever seen your brothers—”

“Don’t have any. Just one sister.”

“Well, the brother of a friend?”

“No.”

He studied her long and hard, as if trying to unravel a mystery that surrounded her. It was foolish of course. She wasn’t mysterious, nor particularly interesting for that matter, and yet he stared at her as if she were the most fascinating creature on earth.

“Tell me about Rachelle Tremont,” he suggested.

“Not much to tell.”

“Well…tell me about yourself, anyway. What else have we got to do?”

The question stopped her cold. It implied that they had time, and lots of it, alone together. It implied that anything else they might consider would only get them in trouble. It implied that they were somehow bound together, obligated to share of themselves, and yet she couldn’t imagine sharing only part of herself with this boy. This man. This male.

As she stood up, she glanced down at him, at his shoulders rising above the hem of patchwork pieces. “I should leave, Jackson. Try to get to town and find you a doctor.”

“I don’t want a doctor.”

“You need one.”

“No way.”

She sat down on the edge of the couch, looking at him, wondering what it would be like to kiss him, and her gaze locked with his for a heart-stopping instant. The look was electric, and she glanced quickly away, aware of heat climbing up her neck.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice husky.

“No, but considering…” She shrugged. “I’m all right.” She was so aware of Jackson that she tingled. “Thanks…thanks for saving me.”

“No big deal—”

“It was!” She bit her lip then, surprised at her vehemence, and when she slid a glance his way, he was studying her face.

“I—I’m not sure—we should stay here.”

“Neither am I,” he admitted, his hand finding hers. His fingers were warm as they laced through hers. Still watching her, he tugged gently, silently insisting that she get closer to him. She knew she shouldn’t. That she should resist. He was too dangerous. Too sexy. And yet her legs moved willingly to the edge of the couch and she didn’t stop him from pulling her closer, so that she was sitting, half lying with him.

As she lowered herself, his hands moved, surrounding her waist, drawing her closer. He stared up at her with the firelight catching in his golden-brown eyes and the throb of his pulse visible in his throat.

One hand held the back of her neck, dragging her head forward until his lips were only inches from hers, his breath mingling with her own. She felt poised on the brink of an emotional river that promised to change her life forever. Not really understanding what was expected of her, and yet wanting to find out, she felt herself let go and dive into the current as his lips brushed gently over hers.

Her heart stopped and the noises of the night—the steady patter of rain, the tick of the clock, the hiss of the fire—faded into some dreamy corner of her mind. The kiss was slow and sensual, and though only their lips touched, the feeling seemed to reach every point in her body.

She felt his breath mingle with hers as his hands twined in her hair. Low and husky, his voice whispered a soft groan and she responded in kind. He drew her closer still until her breasts were flat against his bare chest and his tongue insistently prodded her teeth apart.

Willingly she accepted him. Never had she wanted to be kissed so thoroughly, never had she felt such passion. Eager to learn, quivering as his fingers brushed the bare skin at her throat, she kissed him with the same hunger she felt shudder through him.

“This is dangerous,” he said, but didn’t release her.

“I know.” She licked her tingling lips nervously, and he groaned again.

“I think we should stop.”

“I do, too,” she replied, but didn’t mean the words. Thoughts of pregnancy skittered through her mind, but were quickly forgotten when his fingers lowered, through the long strands of her hair to her back and he gently eased her forward until he could bury his face between her breasts. Her ripped blouse gave him easy entrance, and his breath was warm and wet against her skin.

She felt on fire and instinctively she arched closer, quivering when his tongue touched her flesh, wanting more of this delicious torture. An ache, deep and hot, burned between her legs as his lips slid downward, opening the flaps that had been her blouse and touching the lace of her bra.

His tongue delved beneath the sculpted edge and her nipple puckered in expectation. “You’re beautiful, so, so beautiful,” he said, shoving her blouse open and lowering the one silky strap.

Rachelle kissed the top of his head, wanting so much more.

She trembled as the strap was pulled over her arm and her breast, unbound, spilled into his waiting mouth. A shiver ripped through her as he began to suck and she moved against him, ecstasy and desire running like lava through her veins.

He cupped her buttocks and she felt a short second of panic before desire, like a living, breathing animal, turned panic into need. While he suckled and nipped at her breast, his hands moved downward, beneath her skirt to inch upward again, his flesh against hers.

“Stop me,” he said, his eyes glazed as he stared up at her. “Stop me if this isn’t what you want.”

She was embarrassed, but couldn’t control her wayward tongue. “I—I—uh, don’t want to stop.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

She reached down and held his face between her hands. “I’ve never felt like this before. Never. I don’t know if I can stop.”

He grabbed her hands, his fingers biting into her wrists. “For God’s sake, Rachelle, you were nearly raped tonight. I have no right to ask you to—”

“What happened with Roy has nothing to do with this,” she replied, surprised that he would compare the ugly scene with Roy to this tender, warm moment.

He stared up at her and clenched his teeth together as she shifted her weight. His eyes were tortured. “Too much has already happened tonight. I can’t do this to you.”

“Just kiss me,” she said, knowing she was inviting trouble, but unable to stop. A walk on the wild side? Wasn’t that what she wanted? But this—?

“Rachelle—no—”

She lowered her face to his and slowly drew his lower lip into her mouth. He clenched his jaw. She moved, and her bare breast rubbed against the hair of his chest.

With a groan, he buried his face in her abdomen and she bucked against him.

Jackson’s control burst and he was kissing her again. His lips, wet and anxious, covered her bare skin with eager kisses. His tongue, a wild thing, licked and played, and she was moaning in his arms, consumed with an ache so painful, she only wanted him to fill it.

Her thoughts were blurred, the flame within her so hot that she knew nothing aside from the feel of his skin against hers. He was hard where she was soft, he was hot and sweating as was she and her clothes seemed to fall away effortlessly as he kissed her and whispered words that hinted of love.

Rachelle closed her eyes and let her hands explore every inch of his maleness. From his rock-hard shoulders to the scale of his ribs, she felt him. He kissed her eyes and throat and sucked from her breasts as if she were offering sweet nectar and when he, suddenly oblivious to pain, rolled over her so that she lay beneath him, she felt no fear. He parted her legs and hovered above her.

Only when he looked down and saw her completely naked did he hesitate. “This is wrong,” he whispered.

“It feels right,” she said, swallowing against a sudden premonition that what was happening could never be undone. That he didn’t love her, nor she love him. That she was a stupid teenager experimenting with something that could burn her forever.

Swearing at himself, he thrust into her and she cried out from the pain that seared between her legs. She flexed but he didn’t stop. He moved within her, gently at first until once again the doubts were chased away and all that she felt was the swell of him in her, the calluses of his hands stroking her breasts, the fire that ravaged them both. His strokes deepened and came faster and Rachelle moved with him, wanting more of him, knowing in her heart that nothing that felt so beautiful could be wrong. She clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her hips arching up to meet his until, like an earthquake, a tremor rocked through her and she cried out.

He stiffened and threw back his head in a primal cry. As he fell against her, he tangled his hands in her hair and whispered her name over and over. She seemed to glide, like a feather on the wind, sinking slowly back to earth. She was breathing hard, but the soothing waters of afterglow wrapped around her as tightly as the frayed quilt and Jackson nestled beside her, holding her close, resting her head in the crook of his neck, telling her that she was like no other woman on earth. To her horror, a sob thickened her throat and tears formed in the corner of her eyes.

She didn’t regret their lovemaking, oh, no, but she did cry—for something lost and something gained.