Desert Heart (The Wolves of Twin Moon Ranch Book 4) (8 page)

She looked at him and nodded slowly. The man must have a bank account that stretched over seven or eight digits, but what did he take pride in? His humble, modest dad. The one with a ready smile, a recipe for every occasion.

“I remember.”
I remember him well.

A bubble of sorrow welled up in her. His father’s death had been so brutal, so sudden. So undeserved. But it was all over in such a rush—the investigation, the funeral. Rick had come and gone so quickly, she hadn’t even had a chance to see him or say a word.

Words she wanted to say now.
Your father was kind and loving and generous. A good man.

And God, Rick was exactly the same. Kind. Loving. Genuine, through and through.

Mate. Mine.
Her wolf hummed.

She stepped closer, eyes locked on his. Forgetting about business as she let her hand cover his and feel the heat pulsing through it.

Mine. Mate.

Her knees were about to give way, so she slid to the chair and let him push it in. She stared dumbly at the spread as Rick sat kitty-corner from her. And that was another thing. He didn’t take Henry’s old place at the head; he took a seat around the side. Tina glanced down, realizing he’d seated her in Lucy’s usual place. The place of the woman of the house.

Rick sat down and regarded her quietly with eyes that barely hid the hope inside. Her heart thumped in time with the happy strokes of her wolf’s tail.

“This…” She waved a weak hand toward the spread. “This is gorgeous.”

His smile grew; his eyes twinkled. His shoulders stretched just a little wider. “Give it another couple of seasons, and it will really be gorgeous.” He nodded toward the garden.

Yes, that part could use some work. It was dry and dusty and overgrown, a shadow of its former glory. But someone had been at work there recently. The left side had just been weeded, the flagstone walkway dividing the left and right halves freshly swept. Somebody cared. Somebody wanted that little part of the past back.

Not just somebody. Rick.

Her fingers itched, eager to dig into the soil right there and then. To turn the flower beds, revive the herbs over in the corner. Make old Mrs. Seymour proud.

“It’s gorgeous,” she said again.

He smiled wider. “It’s a mess.”

“Not for long.”

His naturally tan skin darkened with a blush as he picked up a fork. “Dig in.”

She laughed, then went a little pink at the innuendo her wolf served up at the words.

Yes, dig in
, the wolf purred, looking straight at him.

Tina grabbed a napkin and pressed it to her lips before she even took her first bite.

It was the best lunch she’d ever had, bar none. And the best company, too.

Tina dragged her eyes off Rick and anchored them firmly on the bottom of her coffee cup.
Business, pure business.

Her wolf, though, was pacing and yowling within.
This man is our mate.

He can’t be,
she wanted to retort, but she couldn’t quite get the words out, not even inside. The best she could come up with is,
He’s human, not wolf, and our bite will kill him, not turn him.

He’s strong enough,
the wolf urged.

Exactly the problem,
she shot back.
He’s strong enough to try resisting the change. It will kill him.

“More coffee?” he asked, lifting Lucy Seymour’s antique silver pot. It looked so small, so delicate in his hand.

She wanted to scream at the hills. Holler at destiny. Lodge a formal complaint with fate. Because this was impossible.

He’s worth the risk,
a whisper snaked out of the hills.

She shook her head. No. She couldn’t live with herself if he died.

“No?” Rick shook his head.

Her wolf whimpered inside.

“Maybe we should get started on the books you wanted me to look at.”

He looked blank before a flash of disappointment clouded his face. Then the smile crept back. “Sure. That would be great.”

“Great,” she croaked back.

“Great,” he whispered, managing to make even that sound sincere. But that was Rick. Hopeful. Positive. Making the best of things, even if it hurt him inside.

He pulled her chair out, still treating her like a queen, and led the way to the office. Back down the long hallway, past the grandfather clock, ever deeper into the shade of the house. Out of the harsh sunlight and into a private, sheltered world.

She hesitated at the threshold to the office, because the afternoon was not going the way she wanted—needed—it to. She thought she’d be safer from temptation in here. But the urge to give in to the insistent magnetism of the man was stronger than ever.

It could be a secret
, the house seemed to hint.
Nobody will know.

“So,” Rick said from over at the big, oak desk, and she had no choice but to step inside. To come around next to him, holding her breath. “These are the books.”

She nodded, trying to hear over the roaring in her ears. The office smelled of wood oil and leather, underpinned by Rick’s impossibly heady scent. So strong, it was as if fate were fanning his scent toward her. Toward her keen wolf senses, all too eager to suck him in.

This man is ours,
her wolf purred.
This man is our mate.

Rick turned one of the leather-bound ledgers toward her. “I need to check the records, but it’s damn near impossible.”

Impossible, like resisting that scent.

Books. She slid into Henry’s swivel chair, trying to concentrate. Books were familiar territory. She’d be safe as long as she kept her focus there.

Rick angled an open ledger her way. Neat rows of numbers lined up like so many soldiers, ready to march.

“Those are the old ones. Those, I can make out,” he said from where he stood behind her. “But the more recent ones—the last of Lucy’s, and the books Dale has been keeping—I can barely read.” He leaned in to pull another ledger from the pile, and the scent of him rolled toward her like a wave. A wave that called to her to jump in, cool off, revel, and play.

“I don’t know if it’s me or the books.”

She turned, hearing the waver in his voice and found him glaring at the ledgers. A vein throbbed at his temple, right next to the tiny scar. Weakness. Rick had to hate admitting weakness, just like her brothers. He had to hate the need to blink and squeeze his eyes to try to focus on the tiny, scrawling script.

His right arm was braced on the desk at her side, and without thinking, she curled her fingers around his. Maybe the accident wasn’t as much in his past as he wanted it to be. Maybe it never would be.

Whether or not the touch helped Rick, she couldn’t tell. It sure helped her, though, because the second they made contact, her jumpy nerves calmed down.

Nice,
her wolf purred.
Nice.

She forced her eyes back on the ledger and swept a finger along the page without letting go of his hand. She studied the numbers silently and eventually pulled out another ledger, and another, watching the tidy, round script of the earlier volumes grow lopsided, just as Henry Seymour’s body had aged. She turned the page and saw new entries made in Lucy Seymour’s lacy handwriting. Then there was a gap, and an entirely new script invaded the pages. Dale Gordon’s blocky print. The first few months were legible and in line with the Seymours’ conventions—date there, sum there, comment on the right. In the subsequent volume, though, Dale had started leaving out dates, or amounts, and even sticking in question marks. The print leaned more and more heavily, sometimes left, sometimes right, like a drunk winding his way down an alley late at night.

She tilted the page toward the desk lamp.

“It’s not you,” she assured him. “I can barely make this out.”

“But you can read it.” For the first time ever, she heard a trace of bitterness in Rick’s voice.

“Barely. Now shush.” She said it lightly, and his fingers tightened around hers.

His scent surrounded her as he leaned in to read over her shoulder. It was all she could do to keep her mind on the page. She tapped each row before moving on, trying to focus there. Tap, tap, tap, doing rough sums as she went. Skimming down the left page then down the right. She leafed to the next sheet and skimmed again before skidding to a sudden stop and jumping back a line.

April 17—$85—dynamite for…

She leaned closer, trying to make out the rest. Dynamite for what?

“What?” Rick asked. His breath tickled her cheek.

She wanted to slide a hand over his cheek and pull him close.

Concentrate. Just concentrate.

“Dynamite for…for…” The letters were so crooked, she couldn’t make them out. “What would the dynamite be for?”

Rick shifted closer, and everything in her screamed,
Yes! Yes! Closer!

“No idea,” he murmured.

Destiny,
her wolf hummed.
It’s destiny.

Concentrate!
She tried, but her heart wasn’t in it. Everything blurred together. Hardware bills, invoices from the vet, and feed receipts crowded on a page she strained to make sense of. A Post-it note she could barely read. “Dan…Danielson…Davidson Resources?”

He shrugged.

“Something to do with drawing more water from the aquifer?”

His face was blank. “There’s no plan to pump more water. I swear there isn’t.”

The letters on the Post-it were a scrawled bird’s nest she couldn’t make sense of, especially with Rick’s cheek a hair away from hers. Warm and just a little stubbly and…wait. His cheek
was
touching hers.

Her heart skipped faster. Her wolf licked her lips.

She forced herself to lean away but only wound up nuzzling the arm that caged her in from the other side.

Nuzzling,
her wolf murmured.
Good idea.

It was that or turn and kiss him, because she couldn’t
not
touch him any more. She was powerless against destiny. It was a magnetic force, sucking her closer and closer. She rubbed her cheek up toward his shoulder then down, following the bulge of his biceps.

Harder,
her wolf demanded.
Rub harder. Mark him as ours.

She knew she shouldn’t. She knew she couldn’t. But she did it anyway. She needed it more than she needed to breathe. Needed his scent on her, needed his warmth, his touch.

“Tina,” he murmured, nestling closer so his cheek was back on hers.

She’d had dreams like this. Dreams in which they woke up to hours upon languid hours of gentle touches, fluttery kisses, secret smiles. Innocent hours in which she could just be Tina. Not the daughter of the alpha, not the manager of Twin Moon Ranch, not the responsible sister. Just a woman who loved her man. And he could just be Rick. Not the superstar, not the forbidden human. Nothing but the kid next door she’d always, always loved.

She shook her head in a weak no, a last thread of resistance, but all it did was stoke the inner heat.

Mine,
her wolf growled and clawed at the last strands of her self-control.
Mate.

“Rick,” she whispered.

He shifted slightly, and then it wasn’t just his cheek against hers. It was his lips.

Mine
, the human part of her mind echoed.
Mate.

A smart man, Rick figured, would have pulled away and cleared his throat when he realized how close he’d gotten. Said sorry and thanks for the help and see you soon. Because you didn’t lure a woman into your office for perfectly innocent reasons and then start kissing her just out of the blue.

But it wasn’t in him to be that man, not right now. Not with this crazy force field sucking him in. And it wasn’t out of the blue, either. That kiss was years in the making. Years of wishing, wanting, dreaming.

That, and Tina’s ear begged for a kiss. It
needed
a kiss, the same way she needed to be held and touched and revered. She needed all that as badly as he wanted to provide it. Just like the first time she’d come over with her brother, pretending it was only business, when a man could practically see her soul crying inside.

He blinked and gave his head a little shake, but he still couldn’t see straight. The world was getting blurrier, but this time it wasn’t his eye. It was Tina, turning his world upside down with her magic touch. While everything was vague and distant, she was perfectly in focus. Each strand of her silky hair, the smooth skin of her cheek. The parallel curves of her ear, the bergamot scent that called to him like nectar to a bee.

Something outside was pulsing, too, like the whole house was cheering him on. Saying,
This woman needs you. Wants you. Loves you.

Saying,
This was meant to be.

He felt it deep in his bones, in his heart.

“Tina,” he whispered and kissed her ear.

Her eyes were closed. Her head tilted toward his, maybe formulating a secret wish.

Tell me,
he wanted to say.
Tell me your wish, and I will dig to the other end of the earth to fulfill it.

His lips moved right into another kiss, lower this time. Gently, carefully, but another minute of breathing her in and he’d have a hard time stepping on the brakes.

“Tina,” he whispered. “Tell me to stop. Tell me now.”

Her lips quivered, telling him she wanted this, too. To stop pretending and finally, finally dive into the pleasure on the other side of the invisible line they’d been toeing all afternoon.

“I don’t want you to stop,” she breathed, sliding her fingers up and down his arm. “I never wanted you to stop.”

Her eyes were squeezed tight, like maybe if she didn’t look, it would be all right. There it was again, that
something
holding her back.

And just like that, he was tired of that
something
, whatever it was. That
something
had no right coming between them.

He caught her ear between his lips and held it, reveling in her hopeful tremble. Ran his hand through the river of her hair, feeling the silky strands ripple and sway. Leaned deeper, so that his chest touched her shoulder, asking for more. He dipped closer, sliding his lips along her cheek. No way would he let
something
get in the way of what he wanted, not any more.