Sweet Return (26 page)

“But you’re different. You stay here and fuss around with those chickens and eggs and make a quarter of the money you could make somewhere else. I can see you’re a talented businesswoman with a lot of imagination. You’ve got a lot to offer if you weren’t stuck here.”

“I’m not stuck. I lived in Lubbock a couple of years. Went to college up at Tech for a year. Went to beauty school for another. I even worked up there for a few months. But I like it here. I’m a small-town girl. I like knowing everyone around me and having everyone know me.”

“Having people always looking over your shoulder, nosing into your business?”

“Sometimes that’s true, but it’s not malicious. I believe in the network. If you stumble and fall, someone will help you get up.”

He snorted. “And just how often have you stumbled? You don’t strike me as the stumbling type.”

Oh, if you only knew
. “I might be in the middle of a headlong tumble downhill right this minute.”

He cocked his head and grinned. “Yeah?”

He knew she referred to this evening with him. She saw it in those wise eyes. The probing gaze made her uncomfortable. She didn’t want to talk about herself, anyway, didn’t want to put into words some of her baser musings about her dinner partner. She never talked about herself or her businesses to men. Most of the time they weren’t interested. “But whatever happens, I’ll survive. Every day’s a new day.”

He lifted his glass to her. “Now, that’s what I’m talking about. Positive thinking.” He downed the wine remaining in the glass and poured it half full again.

“What about you?” she said. “Haven’t you ever stumbled?”

“More often than I’ll ever admit aloud. I’ve eaten my share of beans. Beans I cooked myself.”

Thinking of her own lack of cooking skills, she chuckled. She was having a very good time. “Then you’re better off than I am. I’ve never cooked a pot of beans that was fit to eat.”

They laughed together then, as if what was going on between them was casual, ordinary fellowship. But it wasn’t. And they both knew it. She had developed a few mind-reading skills herself. Even after so much alcohol had muddled her brain, she still sensed that the intense man who had shown her the pictures on his computer screen, the man who had a hidden compassion for children, was the real Dalton Parker.

“So tell me about what you do,” she said. “You’ve been everywhere, and I’ve never even been to Dallas.”

He began to talk, mesmerizing her with stories of his travels and spellbinding adventures in foreign exotic lands. Many of his stories sounded as exciting and dramatic as fiction. He was the Pied Piper and she was a country mouse.

All at once she noticed that she could almost see two of him. She gave him a narrow-lidded look, trying to erase the ghostlike aura surrounding him.
Damn
. Now she had to figure out how to get home. She didn’t dare drive. “Dalton. I, uh, think I should—”

He stopped her with a derisive noise. “You’re not gonna drive. The fact is, neither one of us is in great shape.”

She braced her hand on the table, prepared to push herself to her feet. “Damn. I never drink this much. I mean, never. Ever.”

He raised his palms defensively. “I didn’t plan it.”

Her eyes squeezed into another squint. “Did I say you did?”

“You almost said it earlier. In the kitchen.”

“Oh. I must’ve forgot that.” She got to her feet but had to brace her fingertips on the tabletop to steady herself. “We should get these dishes cleaned up.”

He, too, stood up. “Nah. They’re not going anywhere.”

She pushed her chair out of the way and started for the back door. “I think I should nap on the sofa for a while. Until my head clears a little.”

He caught up with her and reached around her for the doorknob, surrounding her with his scent. “You don’t have to nap on the sofa. This house is full of beds. Just pick one.”

Was that an invitation of some kind? What did he expect her to say? What did she
want
to say? She tried to count in her head the number of beds in the ranch house and came up with five. “Where do
you
sleep?”

“Where I’ve always slept. In my old room in the back of the house.”

“Then I guess I shouldn’t pick that one.”

He didn’t answer. He just kept looking down at her with those chocolate eyes. “Why not?” he finally said, his voice so soft, she wasn’t sure she had heard him.

Chapter 18

Time stopped. The radio grew silent. Even Joanna’s spinning head took a respite. But her heart stuttered. She looked up into his eyes and saw through the alcohol fog what he wanted from her. Did she want any less from him? Before she could reason through the question, his mouth settled on hers, and nothing could have made her object.

He kissed her sweetly, his palm caressing her jaw, his thumb brushing her cheek as he sipped at her lips. The taste of his mouth, the scent of his breath, the scent of
him
penetrated her psyche like nothing she had known. The very air swirled around her, and it was different from the wooziness in her head.

He gingerly pulled her lower lip between his teeth, paused and looked down at her, the question in his hooded eyes. All she had to do was consent. Or not.

She searched those dark eyes while his ragged breath touched her lips. “Honest,” she said, her voice wobbling. “Compared to what I’m sure you’re used to, I’m really naive and plain dumb.”

“You don’t know what I’m used to. No one with lips as sweet as yours could be naive. And you’re a long way from dumb.” His head bent, his hand cupped her nape and he placed his forehead against hers. “Remember the day I got here? When we were talking out front?”

“I—I think so.”

“One of the very first things I thought about that first time I saw you was how kissable your lips looked.”

Now, that had to be a line. She might be naive and inexperienced with men, but she wasn’t stupid. A little tipsy maybe, but not stupid. “Was that before or after you found out I owned all those hens?”

“Cut it out,” he murmured. “Don’t ruin this.”

He kissed her again, and this time, his tongue swept into her mouth in a way every bit as untamed and carnal as she had suspected him capable of. They played with each other’s lips and tongues all the way through the back door and into the dimly lit kitchen. Oh, he was a good kisser. Not even a sane and sober woman would deny him. And at the moment, she was neither.

He walked her backward a few steps, until she felt the sharp counter edge against her backside and his rigid fly against her belly. Caged by his arms braced on the counter, she made no attempt to escape, and they kept kissing and kissing, their breathing growing rougher with every second.

She felt her shirttail being tugged from her waistband. The sensible Goody Two-shoes Hatlow citizen that she was warned her to take control of the situation before it got out of hand, but the woman who hadn’t felt a man’s touch in too damn long wanted him too much to stop him. Finally, his hand on the bare skin of her back jolted her. She pulled her mouth away from his.

“What is it?” he said.

“This is bad. We don’t like each other.”

His warm lips brushed beneath her ear, then traveled in a trail down her neck. “We like each other enough.”

Now she knew just how far out of it she was because that remark sounded logical. “But you’re talking about bed.” She tilted her head back and relished his mouth on her throat. “And I’d hate myself in the morning.”

“You really think so?” His fingers deftly unhooked her bra, leaving her breasts feeling oddly free.

“No. I don’t know.”

“I promise, I’ll make damn sure you don’t hate me.”

Oh, this wasn’t good. Good Hatlow girls did not do this. “You don’t understand…. I—I’m really unluckyat—at sex…. It’s ne—ver worked out that well for me and—”

“You talk too much.”

She reached behind herself and pulled his hands away from her bare back and from under her shirt. “Honestly,” she choked out, “teenage girls…are better at this…than I am. Really, don’t you think it would be better if I just—just cr-crash on the sofa for a while?”

“If that’s what you really want to do,” he said, his mouth back at her lips, his hands at the hem of her shirt, easing the front up, “all you have to do is say so.”

Her nipples had grown so tight they ached. When the cool air touched them, a shiver passed over her. His warm hand cupped one bare breast. His head moved down and his mouth closed warm and wet around the taut nub of the other. Her breath caught.

His tongue stabbed at her nipple and sensation tore through her secret places. Only a supreme act of will kept her from openly moaning. “It is,” she breathed. “I mean, I do.”

“You sure?” he whispered against her other breast, his hands lifting her shirt higher.

“No. I mean yes.” Now her shirt was pushed up to her neck.

“Yes, what?”

“I’m sure.”

“If you’re gonna to stop me, do it now. ’Cause I’m losing track of this conversation.”

And she was losing her mind. “N-no. I’m—I’m not.”

“This is in the way,” he said, tugging her knit shirt over her head. Like a robot, she lifted her arms. He peeled it all the way off and dropped it on the floor. Without so much as a peep of protest, she let him remove her bra and drop it to the floor, too.

“Damn,” he said and pulled her close. Her bare breasts pressed against his crisp shirt.

“I know,” she mumbled and raised her mouth for more kisses. She wrapped her arms around his middle and they kept kissing like savages, all tongues and heat.

He broke away and grasped her hand. “Let’s go,” he said huskily and strode from the kitchen, dragging her with him. They passed the sofa in the living room as if it weren’t there and still, she raised not a protest.

He led her up the hallway to the back bedroom, one of the few rooms in this house she hadn’t been inside more than once or twice. The room was dark as a cave, but against the side of her knee, she recognized the edge of a mattress. She dropped to it like a sandbag just as the lamp beside the bed came on and flooded them with low amber light. Instinctively, her arms flew across her bare breasts, her hands gripping her shoulders. She looked up at him. “On second thought, you know, I really should, uh, sleep on the sofa. I’m a lousy sleeper. I snore. And I’m used to having the whole bed.”

“Yeah?” He squatted in front of her and pulled off her boots and socks. “I’m tough. I can probably stand it.”

He stood up, his fly at her eye level. Her gaze froze on the bulge in the wash-worn denim fabric and reality lunged through the fuzziness that surrounded her. She tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry.

He sat down beside her on the bed. She bit down on her lower lip, watching him pry off his own boots and socks. “Dalton, really. We—we shouldn’t do this.”

“I know.”

“What if Clova found out?”

“You think I’m gonna tell my mother?”

“It doesn’t…it doesn’t have any meaning.”

He turned toward her, his hand braced behind her on the bed, his face only inches away. His eyes locked on hers. Light as a feather, his finger trailed along the arm that covered her breasts. “What makes you think it doesn’t have any meaning? There’s damn near nothing that happens that has no meaning.”

She gripped her own shoulders tighter. “I don’t know. I mean, how could it? I just think—”

“Don’t think.” He reached for her hands, uncrossed her arms and gazed at her breasts. She closed her eyes and held her breath.

“Your body’s all I thought it’d be,” he said.

He had been thinking about her body? She opened her eyes and saw him smiling. “Well, I, uh, get a lot of exercise and—”

“Just stop talking”—he clasped her wrists and placed her arms around his neck, and his arms came around her—“and kiss me.”

Taking her mouth in another devastating kiss, he eased them backward on the bed as if they were one unit. His knee slipped between hers and all she could manage was a pathetic whimper.

Amid more sensual kissing, she felt her pants zipper slide open, felt his hand slip inside her fly, felt it close over her sex. “Oh, man, you’re wet,” he whispered, rubbing her slowly through her panties. “And hot.”

He sat up and too easily peeled off her Dockers and panties. As his palm came back up the inside of her leg, he leaned and kissed her stomach. “You’ve got goose bumps,” he said.

“Uh, I’m cold.”

He chuckled softly. “Thanks a lot.”

“I mean, I’m not cold
that
way, but—”

“Shh.” He stood up, grasped her arm with one hand and pulled her to her feet. He held her against him as if he thought she might bolt as he pulled back the covers with his free hand. “Scoot in,” he ordered.

She obeyed and shuddered as the cold sheets enveloped her….

Oh, my God!
This was the worst bed she had ever lain on. She couldn’t drink enough liquor to be comfortable on this mattress. Clutching the hem of the sheet under her chin, she said, “What—what kind of ma-mattress is this?”

Unbuttoning his shirt cuffs, he looked down at her. “You’re really into mattresses, aren’t you?”

She watched him methodically unbuttoning his shirt front, her body heat gradually warming the chilly bed. “We—we spend a third of our lives sleeping. A good place to do it is important.”

“It’s brand-new. I just bought it Saturday. Compared to what was here before, I thought it felt pretty good.” He shrugged out of his shirt, wadded it into a ball and threw it across the room, his tanned shoulders and biceps bunching and rippling with the action.

Seeing him without his shirt instantly diverted her attention from the uncomfortable mattress. Her imagination had already conjured up a picture of him without clothes, but those images were pitifully deficient. He was the most beautiful shirtless man she had ever seen.
Abs
. He had
abs
, for crying out loud. She tried to think if she had ever seen an adult male in real life with abs.

He dug into his pocket, pulled out several condom packets and dropped them onto the bedside table. Seeing them brought another hard swallow, but she lay still and stiff as a corpse. Did he carry those all the time? Or had he bought them today, planning for this to happen? After he fed her enough liquor?