A Bitch In Time (Marina: Part One: Naughty Nookie Series) (5 page)

I don’t want to leave the
hotel.  Not for safety, because I think the Russians will be watching
me.  Simply because there’s nothing I want to see and nowhere I want to
go.

For twelve years, I’ve blocked
out Blue Ridge.  Tried to pry it out of my memory banks, because just
thinking about it
and
Jimmy, is enough to make me depressed.

But now I’ve opened those
floodgates, I keep thinking of my home.  Where acres of land surround the
homestead and I can look for miles and miles and only see the cattle and the
clouds roaming overhead.  From the front verandah, I can see the cluster
of cottages to the east where the
IQ Commune
is based, but for the
rest?  There’s a stable, a barn, and not much else. 

In my memories, it’s so vivid,
it’s like I only just left.  I know there will have been changes.  My
uncle Samuel, the man I left to look after the place six years back, when my
father died and mother took off on a hellishly long road trip, moves with the
times too well.  

He might be nearing seventy,
but he can make radical decisions without really thinking them through. 
And that was why I hired Nathan. 

After one such decision that
had seen Samuel replace the computer system my parents had installed with a
more modern version.  An act that had caused utter chaos down at the
ranch. 

Somehow, the steers i.e. male
castrated cattle, had been classified as intact, meaning they had their
balls. 

I’d had to fly over and calm
down the panic.  It was one time too many, because Sam had a way of
courting trouble.  In the end, I’d advertised for a ranch foreman and
Nathan had answered the ad.

That, as they say, is that.

In his interview, I can
remember him sitting there, gruff and uncomfortable.  I’d learn later on
that the accident that had torn off his arm had only occurred twelve months
before. 

He hadn’t told me about his
injury at the interview and I hadn’t even noticed thanks to a wickedly good
prosthetic.  He’d only told me about his ranching background –his
granddaddy had owned a ranch and Nate had helped him on it as a teenager. 
Basically managing the business for his aging relative.

I’d hired him on the
spot.  Out of desperation, rather than good sense.  Although looking
back, it was one of the best decisions I’d ever made.  Even if, after I’d
learned about his disability, it had been a nightmare to sort out the minutiae
with the insurance company!

I’d ignored the fact that his
granddaddy had had only three hundred head of cattle and that in comparison to
the four thousand on Blue Ridge that was like putting David up against Goliath
again!

I’d ignored the gaping hole in
his CV that I’d later find out was the period of time he’d worked as a
documentary maker.

Four things had swayed me to
his cause.

One, he had minimal
experience, but
some
was better than nothing.  The
IQ Commune
staffed the ranch, but they weren’t dedicated to it like a foreman had to
be.  The cattle funded the majority of the commune’s expenses, but it took
a backseat to each member’s principal occupation.  Every day, they worked
a shift on the ranch and then returned to their own world.  Be it
astrophysics or topology.  On top of that, he had a pilot’s license.

Two, he had an IQ of
one-forty-eight.  Even the ranch foreman had to abide by the same
principal rules of the commune.  Getting a guy with that high an
intelligence quotient to man a ranch was like turning pebbles into gold. 
He’d sat the exam without complaint and passed it with flying colors. 

Even when uncle Sam had
bitched about needing a nursemaid, he hadn’t been able to say a damned thing
about Nate’s IQ.

Three, he didn’t mind living
in the middle of nowhere while being that aforementioned nursemaid to a loopy
uncle, as he oversaw those four-thousand head of cattle and a three-hundred
strong commune of erratic, capricious and unpredictable geniuses.

Four, he was a hunk.

An honest-to-God, drool-making
machine.

He had that whole blond thing
going on.  I don’t normally like blond men, but his hair had that many
streaks, I thought he visited a hairstylist.  Gold, amber, white, sandy…
the word tawny in no way describes the color.  I only know he doesn’t dye
it, because every time it’s pretty much the same.  Only the season changes
it.  It darkens in winter and lightens in summer.

His skin is bronzed by the
sun.  That day, on his interview, after he’d sat the IQ test uncle Sam had
given him and I’d flown down to see if the guy was one of those geniuses that
had leapt off the deep end for wanting to work at Blue Ridge as a foreman, his
coloring had made me sit and stare for a moment.  His tan had me wonder if
there were any white lines on his body.

Tiny golden flecks marred the
bronzed perfection of his flesh.  He was by no means hairy, but they were
visible, glinting as they did in the sun.  

Tall, muscled but not heavily
so, enough that his limbs had some delineation, visible when his shirt and
jacket tautened against his body.  He wasn’t stacked, just normal. 
But very strong.  And damned tall.  Taller than me, something I
did
and still appreciate in a man.

He’d worn a pair of slacks and
matching sports jacket, the dark brown enhancing his coloring, a cream,
open-collar shirt and a pair of brown leather loafers.  He’d been dressed
for the city, but that hadn’t bothered me.  In fact, my city-slicker
sensibilities had been appreciative, where my uncle had denigrated him for it.

The instant my eyes had
clashed with those moss-green orbs of his, Nathan Conroy had the job. 
Light gold striations had washed out the vibrant green with a color that I
could only describe as being similar to lightly brewed chamomile tea. 
Cat’s eyes.  He’d pinned me to the spot that day and I’d left the interview
wishing he’d pinned me to the table and…

At the memory, my lips twitch
and unsurprisingly, I don’t feel cooler.  Turning the air con down another
few centigrades, I walk the length of the room.  I pass a low cabinet
sheltering the scavenged mini bar —hey, a girl has to have a midnight feast
every now and then!— and one of those annoying metal clothes frames as well as
a TV suspended on a bracket.   Every time I stride past, the closed
curtains swish and let in slithers of light.

I’m in a weird mood.  I
can’t deny it.  Thoughts of returning to a place I’ve avoided don’t
help.  Plus, relief at knowing I’m going to see Nathan soon is making me
edgy.

It’s hard, but I make myself
go to the bed and sit down.  Maybe a nap will take this uneasiness
away?  Or maybe only Nathan can do that?

*****

The instant I awaken, I know
he’s there.  The concierge must have given him the key like I’d
requested. 

Something inside me sighs with
relief to know he’s more than just in the same city as me; he’s actually in the
same bed.

A part of me wants to wake him
up, chide him for not awakening me the instant he arrived, but he’s that kind
of guy.  How he hasn’t been snapped up is beyond me.  I guess it
could be his disability, but any woman who sees that before acknowledging the
rest of the man… well, she deserves to miss out.  Nate is so much more
than a label.

Things are different now,
because the
IQ Commune
developed a bionic hand for him to wear that
gives him a huge chunk of his motility back.  But prior to the development
of the unique prosthetic, something that’s about to rake in millions for the
genius farm, he has only ever worn the false limb in the city.

Out on the range, he’d never
worn one.  Yet I’ve never seen him without the false limb during our stays
in Chicago.  Before the bionic hand, he’d never worn one with me in
private either.  And I think that’s telling.  He realizes I’m not
freaked out by his disability and he can be himself, be comfortable.  At
ease.

I like that.  Nate is a
hard man to pin down.   I mean that figuratively and literally. 
A grin stretches my lips apart and I turn my mouth to brush his bicep, as I
curl into him and wrap an arm about his waist.

He’s difficult to control,
even if I’m on top, riding cowgirl, he never lets me stay there for long. 

But my actual point, of
pinning Nathan Conroy down, revolved around the emotional sense.  I never
really know what he’s thinking but I do know he likes his freedom, which is
fortunate, because I do too. 

That being said, I consider
myself in a relationship with him.  I’m faithful to him and I know Nate is
to me.  The distance separating us doesn’t mean our relationship is any
different to a regular couple.  It just means the sex is hotter.

My grin makes another
appearance but this time, it doesn’t go unnoticed.  With a yawn mangling
the words, Nate mutters, “What are you smiling about?”

“I’ll let you know once you
wake up.” 

His body tenses, the muscles
jolting in reaction to my words.  My grin disappears to be replaced with a
smug twitch of my lips and my hand, with a life of its own, wanders down the
naked expanse of taut belly towards the deliciously sinewed hips.  I’ve
always been a sucker for obliques, those delicious muscles that form a
delineated ‘V’ towards a man’s cock, and they’re like ridges on Nate’s lower
abdomen.  My own belly clenches at the thought and I stay the path of my
hand.  Within seconds, I’m on my knees, pushing the thin sheet out of the
way and I’m astride Nate’s lower thighs. 

“Turn on the light,” I order,
wanting to see him spread out, like a feast, just for me.

I hear him fumble about with
the bedside table, then the faint click before the lights blare on.  The
pair of us blink at the brightness, then, as our eyes focus, we shoot dopey
smiles at each other.  Mine is a mirror reflection of his and I reach for
his left hand, tightening my fingers about his. 

“Hi.”  My whispered
greeting has those gorgeous green eyes of his softening and he knots our
fingers together.  “It’s good to see you.”  The inane comment in no
way describes how relieved I am he’s here.

I’ve never felt this way
before, but then, I guess I’ve never felt insecure about any part of my
life.  That sounds mega arrogant and I’m only just starting to realize how
intolerable I must have been all these years.  So sure of myself, of my
actions.  So certain I knew what was best.  Yet now, I’m in the
shit.  My arrogance didn’t protect me, didn’t keep me from danger. 

I guess it’s pathetic to want
to rely on a man for security.  It’s so not the way I was taught.  At
school, on the commune, we were taught everything from the theory of relativity
to self-defense.  I can shoot a rifle, but I’m a crack shot with my
Granddaddy’s old service revolver.  I can actually speak Russian!  So
if the bastards had come after me, I could have bored them to death while
explaining E = MC² in
russkij jazyk
a.k.a their mother tongue, while
making them spew in the aftermath of a Butterfly Kick to the gut and clutching
their hearts after a perfectly aimed shot to the chest!  But come after my
friends?  People who are like family to me?  I’m screwed and feel
totally useless.

His top lip quirks up. 
“I thought I’d let you rest.  I got in a few hours ago and you were asleep
—in the middle of the afternoon!  So you must have needed the down time.”

“You’ve no idea.”

He frowns at me.  His
eyes literally glow with his concern and despite myself, I’m really
touched.  I don’t know why.  He
should
be concerned.  If
he came to me with a problem,
I
would be.  But still, to see that
someone gives a damn, a guy like Nate too, it just makes me feel warm and cozy
inside.  And I’m not a warm and cozy kind of girl!

“What’s wrong?”

I wave a hand, trying to seem
blasé, when in truth I’m really concerned.  “It doesn’t matter.”

It
does
, but this first
night with Nate is always special and I don’t want to ruin it with news of how
I’ve fucked up my life.

There’s time tomorrow to tell
him the truth and to ask him advice.

I just want to be with the man
and to enjoy him.

“Of course it matters. 
Tell me.”

I rock my hips, enticing
myself more than him, if truth be told.  The crotch of my short shorts has
buried itself between my pussy lips and the slight friction against my clit has
tingles rushing up and down my spine.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Hey!”  His voice is
almost a bark.  “What matters to you, matters to me.”

I don’t want to think what
those words do to me.  How important they are.

At this moment, with my life
in shambles, I can’t think.  I just need him.  I grab his hand and
shove it between my legs, but he stops me, his fingers tightening about my
own.  This time, his voice is definitely a bark.  “Stop it. 
Talk to me, I’m not a fuck doll.”

The bitch in me could laugh
aloud at that comment.  But that’s only because he’s denying me what I
want.  His gaze is knife-sharp and he cuts into me a little, forcing me to
be serious.