Long, Tall Texans: Calhoun (16 page)

"Justin and I had a long talk," he replied. "Not that I expect it to do any good. He's too set in his ways to bend, and he won't let Shelby get near him."

"Maybe someday he'll listen."

"Maybe." He sighed. "Five tomorrow. Don't forget."

As if she could! She touched the receiver as if she were touching him. "Good night."

"Good night, sweetheart," he said softly, and the line went dead.

She floated into her nightgown and into bed, hearing nothing but the endearment, that unexpected, beautiful word, until sleep finally claimed her.

It was the longest Saturday of Abby's life. She tried to sleep late, but she couldn't. She went downstairs and had breakfast with Mrs. Simpson and then she went back to her room and forced herself to watch television.

Having Saturdays free was still new. At the feedlot, she'd always worked them. Now she had the whole weekend off, and she didn't know what to do with herself.

Time dragged all day long. She went for a ride just to give herself something to do and wound up in town shopping for a new dress to wear on her date with Calhoun.

She came out with a pretty red patterned silk skirt and matching sweater. It brought out her tan and made her look sophisticated. She thought about having her hair cut, but she'd gotten used to its length. She experimented with different hairstyles for an hour, only to brush it out and leave it around her shoulders afterward.

She was dressed and ready at 4:30. She tried to get interested in a book while she waited. Those thirty minutes were going to be agony.

Apparently Calhoun felt the same way, because he showed up twenty minutes early.

She forced herself not to run to let him in, but she was breathless all the same as she looked up into his dark, quiet eyes.

"Hi," she said.

He smiled slowly, gazing approvingly not only at her outfit but at her hairdo as well. "Hi," he replied lazily.

He was wearing a charcoal-gray suit with pale gray hand-tooled leather boots and a pearl Stetson. He looked so handsome that Abby could hardly believe he was really taking her out on a date. It was so new, so unreal.

"Are you sure you want to take me out?" she asked unexpectedly, her eyes troubled as they met his. "You don't feel sorry for me—?"

He put his thumb gently against her lips, silencing her. "I wouldn't take you to the post office out of pity," he replied. "Are you getting cold feet?" he added softly.

She grimaced and stared at his jacket. "Yes."

"I won't hurt you," he said, his voice quiet and deep. "I won't rush you or embarrass you."

She bit her lower lip. "It's just that it's...new."

"You'll get used to it." He moved restlessly. "Are you ready to go? I'm early, but I was afraid I'd get held up if I didn't leave while I could."

"Yes. I'll just get my purse."

She got her purse and her black velvet blazer, as well, and let him escort her out to the Jaguar. She got more nervous by the minute, which was absurd considering how long she'd dreamed of going anywhere with him.

She could hardly talk, and her hands shook.

"How do you like living with Mrs. Simpson?" Calhoun asked on the way to Houston.

She smiled. "I like it very much." Her fingers toyed with the handle of her purse. "I miss the house sometimes. It's different, living alone."

He glanced at her, his eyes narrow. "Yes." He turned his eyes back to the road, frowning as he pulled a cigarette from

the pack in his pocket and stuck it in his mouth. He reached for the car lighter, noticing her curious stare.

"I'm nervous," he said without thinking, and then he laughed at his own confession. "That's one for the books, isn't it, Abby, with my reputation?"

She felt warm all over. She smiled, her eyes carefully lowered. "I'm nervous, too," she said.

"I'm not a virgin," he reminded her as he put the lighter against the cigarette.

"Rub it in," she sighed miserably.

"Don't make it sound like leprosy," he teased as he replaced the lighter in its hole beside the ashtray in the dash. "Frankly, I've had my fill of experienced women telling me what to do in bed."

She stared at him, torn between curiosity and jealousy. "Do women really do that?"

His eyebrows arched. He hadn't realized how innocent she really was. "Don't you go to movies?"

"I tried," she recalled. "You never would let me in to see the really good ones."

He whistled softly. "Well, well." His eyes brushed her slender body, then returned to the road. "You'll take a lot of teaching, won't you, tidbit?" he murmured.

She shifted against the seatbelt. "Which would probably bore you to death."

"I don't think so," he mused. "After all—" he lifted the cigarette to his firm lips "—I could customize you."

She gaped at him. "Now I've heard everything!"

"Tell me you'd hate being my lover, Abby," he challenged softly, glancing her way.

She couldn't. But she couldn't quite admit the truth, either. She averted her face, burning with subdued irritation at his soft, predatory laughter.

They went to the same club where she'd seen him with the blonde, but this time was different. There seemed to be no barriers after the first few awkward minutes.

"I've never had rice made like this," Abby remarked as she enjoyed the small portion that came with her roast beef au jus.

"With scallions, you mean? It's unique. Like you," he added, and she looked up to find his eyes steady on her face. Intent. Unblinking.

She gazed back at him. He made her feel giddy when he looked at her that way. Her whole body tingled.

And she wasn't the only one affected. His heart was doing a tango in his chest at the way she was watching him, at her pleasure in his company. He even liked the way he felt himself, nervous and a little uncertain.

They finished their meal, and the dessert that followed it, in silence. As they lingered over a second cup of coffee, he finally spoke. "Want to dance?" he asked softly.

She swallowed. Her eyes traveled slowly over his big body, and just the thought of being pressed against him on the dance floor frightened her. She'd drown in pleasure, and he'd know it. He'd see how helpless she was, how vulnerable.

"I—don't know," she stammered finally, and swallowed the last spoonful of her apple pie.

"Are you really afraid to let me hold you in front of a roomful of people, Abby?" he asked with narrowed eyes.

She lifted her own gaze. "Yes."

"Why?" he persisted.

Well, why not be honest, she thought fatalistically. "Because I want you," she whispered softly, watching his expression become taut. "And because you'll be able to see how much."

Her lack of guile floored him. He couldn't remember a single woman in his past being quite so straightforward about such things. He took a slow breath and reached across the table for her hand, turning it over to trace the palm tenderly with a long forefinger.

"I want you just as badly," he said, watching her hand instead of her eyes. "And you'll be able to feel how much, as well as see it. And I still want to dance with you."

She was so hungry for him that her body was pulsing softly. Even having him know every thought in her mind, being vulnerable, didn't seem to matter anymore. She worshiped him with her eyes, and he looked up and caught her in the act.

"Let's stop pretending," he said quietly. "Come here."

He got up, drawing her with him. He led her to the small dance floor, where a band was playing a lazy tune, and when he pulled her close, she went without a murmur.

"Have you ever noticed how perfectly we fit together?" he asked against her hair as they moved to the music. His hand at her back contracted, bringing her even closer, and the sound of his voice at her ear was deliciously exciting. "I like the way you feel against me."

She could tell that, because his body was beginning to react in a totally masculine way to her softness. She stiffened a little, but the caressing motion of his fingers on hers relaxed her.

"It's all right," he whispered. "I won't hurt you."

"I know that." She closed her eyes, drowning in his nearness, in the music, in the magic.

He shuddered, a barely perceptible stiffening of his big body, and his hand pressed her against him for one wild second. "This is stupid," he said tautly.

"I tried to tell you that," she whispered shakily as her fingers contracted helplessly in his and she looked up into his eyes.

His jaw clenched. Everything she felt was in those worshipful eyes, in her face, in her body so soft against his. His mind whirled; he was floating. She wanted him.

"For God's sake," he groaned. "Let's get out of here."

Her gaze searched his hard, dark face, the eyes that blazed down into hers. He looked impossibly mature and experienced, and she knew she was out of her league. But she wanted to lie in his arms and let him love her. She wanted nothing in life more than to be alone with him now.

"I..." She swallowed. "I don't know how...I've never had to...about precautions, I mean..."

He bent, brushing his hard mouth against her soft one briefly, silencing her. "Are you scared?"

"Yes."

His nose nuzzled hers. "But you'd give yourself to me anyway."

She clenched her teeth. "Yes."

"And hate me afterward."

Her slender shoulders lifted and fell. "No."

Her expression touched him. "Do you love me that much?"

She lowered her eyes, but he tilted her chin up again and there was something new in his look, in his scrutiny of her face.

"Do you love me that much?" he whispered again.

Her eyes closed. "Yes!" she breathed.

His hand slid up her back into her long, thick hair and pulled her forehead against him, pressed it there as they moved to the rhythm of the music. "Precious," he said in a tone that could have burned water. She hardly heard him over the wild beating of her heart. His lips smoothed her forehead, brushing it tenderly.

"I won't make you pregnant," he whispered. "Come with me.

As if she had a choice, she thought shakily as she let him lead her off the dance floor. She'd never been so helpless in her life. All she could do was look at him with helpless need, love radiating from her oval face like fire from an open hearth.

He paid the bill and drew her out into the cold night air, tucked her in the car and drove across town without saying a single word.

Calhoun had a penthouse apartment with a private elevator and a view of Houston that was breathtaking. It was furnished in tans and browns, with African carvings and weavings mingled with Western paintings and Indian rugs. It was an apartment that was welcoming despite its purely masculine ambience.

"Do you like it?" Calhoun asked, watching her from the closed door.

"Very much," she said, smiling. "It suits you."

He came into the room, his eyes never leaving her face. "How about something to drink? I can make coffee."

She shifted her eyebrows. "Coffee?"

His dark eyes narrowed. "Just because you got drunk with Justin doesn't mean you can expect the same courtesy here."

She shifted restlessly, her purse clutched against her waist "Well, I didn't mean to get drunk with Justin."

"I'll bet the pair of you could hardly walk the next morning."

"We sort of leaned on each other," she confessed. She searched his hard face. "He was afraid you were going to use

your experience to take Shelby away from him. He didn't come right out and say so, but it was implied."

"As if I could hurt him like that," he said curtly. His dark eyes wandered quietly over her face, tracing every soft line. "Did you care that I danced with her?"

She turned toward the window. "I like the scenery," she said, trying to change the subject, trying to breathe normally.

"Yes, I like it, too," he said finally. "I wanted something with a view of the city. And I have to spend a lot of time here on business, so that makes it a good investment."

She heard his steps coming closer, and she could feel his warmth at her back, smell the clean, spicy scent of him.

Her pulse jumped as his lean hands caught her waist and pulled her against his big body. She heard his breath and felt it in her hair as he wrapped her up in his arms from behind, rocking her lazily as they watched the city lights spread out below them.

He inhaled the floral scent of her body and the clean, shampooed softness of her hair all at the same time. He bent his head and brushed his mouth against her neck through her silky hair.

"I miss you," he said softly. "You haunt me."

"You'll get used to not having me around," she said sadly. "After all, up until five and a half years ago, you and Justin had the house all to yourselves."

"And then you moved in," he mused, linking his lean hands in front of her. "We got used to running feet and laughter, to music in the living room and movies on television and teenage girls in and out and hot-rodding young men speeding up the driveway."

"You were both very tolerant for old bachelors," she said. "Looking back, I guess I really cramped your style."

He stiffened a little, because it was true. She had at first. But now it hurt to look back, to remember his furtive affairs, his hidden amours. It hurt to think that there'd ever been a woman in his arms except Abby.

"A woman in the dark is just a body," he said softly. "And I never gave my heart, Abby."

"Do you have one?" she asked.

He turned her gently, putting her hand on his chest, over his white silk shirt, against hard, warm muscle and thick hair. "Feel it beat," he whispered.

"That isn't what I meant."

"I know." He looked down at her hand, feeling his body tauten at the light touch. He moved her fingers across his chest to a hard male nipple and held her palm there, letting her feel.

She glanced up at him, her blue-gray eyes wide and searching as he stroked her hand against the hardness.

"That happens to women," she whispered.

"And to men." He gently pulled her closer, his hands moving into her hair as he bent his head. "Unbutton my shirt. I'm going to show you how to touch me."