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Her fingers curled into his thick hair and she gasped with want as firelight flickered and danced in coppery shadows on his skin.
He unhooked her bra and let it drop to the floor, watching in silent fascination as her breasts, so tightly bound, fell free. “You’re so damned beautiful,” he finally said, his breath fanning her skin. “It should be a sin.” He touched her nipple and it hardened expectantly before he slid lower and began to suck.
“Oh . . . oh . . .” His hands were in her shorts, skimming them off her buttocks, touching her suddenly moist curls, sliding intimately on the inside of her thighs, rubbing up against her, probing into the most secret of her places.
She couldn’t help herself. She, who had always been cool and aloof, who, some boys had said, had ice water running through her veins, arched against him, silently begging for more. She was in a tiny room in a dilapidated cottage, on a bed that had cradled lovers for nearly a hundred years, and she was kissing a man she barely knew, a man who refused to be seen in public with her, a man who was about to become her first and only lover.
Afterward, in the sheen of afterglow, he held her close and stroked her face. His ring reflected the flickering flames of the fire. She touched the black stone. “Is this significant?” she asked.
“It’s the only thing I’m wearing.”
Chuckling softly she smiled up at him. “I know. I just wondered if it was significant.” She twisted a finger in the coarse hairs of his chest. “You know, did some girl give it to you?”
He snorted. “Hardly.” He took off the circle of gold and stared through its center. “This is all that I have of my natural father—the guy without a face who impregnated my mother and took a long hike. I should throw it away, I suppose, but I keep it to remin
d me that the bastard didn’t want me, didn’t want my ma, and I was lucky enough to have Dan Riley as a stepfather.”
“What was his name?”
“My real father?” He sighed. “Don’t know. No one ever said, and there’s no name listed on my birth certificate.”
“Don’t you want to know?”
“Nah.” Sliding the ring back on his finger, he pulled her closer and she nestled against the hard muscles of his naked shoulder. “It doesn’t matter.” Pressing a kiss to the top of her head, he added, “Right now, all that matters is you and me.”
“Forever?” she asked.
“Forever is a long time, but maybe. Yeah, maybe.”
Miranda tilted her head upward, waiting for the kiss she knew would come. She’d finally found a little bit of heaven right here on earth.
“You were with Weston Taggert last night?” Miranda whispered, feeling her face turn pale as she poured water into the Mr. Coffee machine and heard the first gurgling sounds as the coffeemaker began to heat. Her sister’s surprise announcement ricocheted off the walls of her mind as she was still coming to terms with the fact that she and Hunter had made love. The soreness between her legs this morning was a constant reminder of last night. She cleared her throat and tried to concentrate on the problem at hand. The problem, as always, was Tessa. “For God’s sake, Tessa, why?”
Tessa lifted an insolent I-don’t-give-a-damn-what-you-think shoulder as she strolled to the table and stifled a yawn. “Why not?”
“You know why not, the guy’s bad news.”
“Because he’s a Taggert? Ah, ah, ah, Randa, you’re starting to sound like Dad.”
“Give me a break, this has nothing to do with him being a Taggert and you know it. The guy’s got a reputation.” And what about Hunter? Why won’t he let anyone know that you’re a couple? Is he ashamed of you, trying to protect you, or, like Weston, just plain bad news?
The radio was playing and an ancient Kenny Rogers song wafted through the room.
“Ruby . . . don’t take your love to town . . .”
Before she could hear any more of the song, Miranda snapped off the radio.
Tessa kicked out one of the café chairs and sank into it. Holding her chin in one hand, she offered Miranda a smile that was patently coy. “Weston’s considered the most eligible bachelor in Chinook.”
“Listen to you! What are you talking about—eligible bachelors?” Miranda opened a loaf of bread and slapped two slices into the toaster. “You’re only fifteen, for crying out loud. Fifteen! A baby! It’s not like you need to find a husband!”
Petulance thrust out Tessa’s lower lip. She rubbed her eyes and last night’s mascara discolored her cheeks. “Well I don’t plan on being a wrinkled old maid.”
“Is that a jab at me?”
“Take it any way you want it.” Tessa was playing with the salt and pepper shakers, staring at the ceramic strawberries as if they held all the secrets of the universe.
The toast popped up and Miranda threw in another couple of slices before buttering the first two with a vengeance that nearly tore holes in the bread. “I’m not planning on being an old maid, but neither am I going to be some rich boy’s toy. Weston Taggert is a user.” She used the butter knife to punctuate her words by wagging it in Tessa’s direction. “He takes what he can get from girls. Then, when he’s bored, he throws them away like empty beer cans.”
