Amanda (8 page)

His mouth ground into hers and she moaned, her fingers lifting quickly to her blouse and coping with the buttons in feverish haste. She could feel him struggling with his own clothing, but the heat between them built quickly to such a frenzied pitch that neither of them managed to get completely naked. Her bra, unfastened between the cups, dangled from her shoulders, and though she managed to get her panties off, the buttons of her skirt were stubborn and the garment was rucked up around her waist when he pushed her back against the wall and kneed her legs apart. And though he managed to get rid of his shirt, his jeans and shorts were shoved down only as far as necessary.

Even in the grip of lust, however, he automatically put on a condom; she had made her wishes on that subject very, very clear, and by now the habit was ingrained. Upon getting dressed every morning, sliding a couple of condoms into his pocket on the chance of a meeting with Kate was as routine a practice as putting on his socks.

“Yes,” she whispered when he slid his hands around to grasp her buttocks and begin lifting her. “Yes, Ben.” Her legs closed around him, gripping him, and he groaned when her hot, slippery sheath enveloped his aching flesh.

With her back braced against the wall and her legs wrapped around his waist, he was supporting most of her weight, and she was not a small woman. But he was strong, and so caught up in lust he never noticed the effort as he heaved and thrust. She was urging him on frantically, her low voice strained and throaty as she moaned and whimpered her pleasure, and they
knew each other’s responses so well that their climb toward orgasm was swift and perfectly in sync.

When they climaxed, almost in the same second, it was with the slightly muffled cries of two people always conscious of the need to keep their activity as quiet as possible.

For a few moments they remained locked together, breath rasping and bodies trembling, the wall and willpower holding them upright. But, finally, she loosened her legs and allowed them to slide down over his, and he steadied her as their bodies disconnected and her feet—still wearing neat and ladylike espadrilles— found the floor.

Ben looked at her as he eased back away from her. Her hair was still tidy in its customary French twist, her face serene as always, but there was a sensual flush over her excellent cheekbones, a heavy, languid expression in her eyes, and her mouth was softened and redder than normal.

He kissed her slowly, wanting her even more now, which was also a customary thing; having Kate, though it was, God knew, wildly exciting and always satisfying, seemed to only intensify rather than satiate his desire for her. But he could tell by the relaxed way she returned his kiss that it would only be once today and, wary of pressing her, he drew away.

He pulled his jeans partway back up, then went into the bathroom to take care of himself. When he came back out a couple of minutes later, his jeans fastened and a damp washcloth in his hand, she had her bra in place and was working on the blouse, hiding her magnificent breasts from him. He sighed with more than a pang of regret.

“You needed it bad,” he noted, bending to pick up her discarded panties.

“And you didn’t?” Her voice was dry rather than defensive, and he grinned.

“Always. We both know I can’t get enough. As a matter of fact, if you stand there much longer with your skirt hiked up like that—”

“No, I have to get back to the house.” She took the damp cloth from his hand and cleaned herself with the fastidious deftness of a cat, then handed him the cloth, took her panties, and finished dressing.

He watched her, admiring her beauty but even more fascinated by her self-possession. She had been completely natural from the first with him, utterly comfortable in her own skin and lustily interested in his, and Ben found that a refreshing change. All the other women he’d known always seemed either self-conscious or anxious after sex, worried about how they looked naked and about how they felt or were supposed to feel—and how
he
felt or was supposed to feel.

But not Kate. She came to him to get laid—pure and simple. He hadn’t been the first, and he knew damned well he wouldn’t be the last, and once he’d gotten past the natural worry that it might cost him his job, he’d enjoyed their frequent couplings just as any healthy thirty-year-old male would have. It had been more than six months now, and if she was getting bored with him he hadn’t seen a sign of it.

“it’s Amanda, isn’t it?” he probed as she smoothed her skirt down over the long, sleek legs he loved. “Her coming back here got you tied in a knot.”

“You think I only come to you when I’m tense?” Her voice remained calm, a long way from the husky moan that passion roused from her.

“I think you
usually
come to me when you’re tense. I’m a glass of warm milk, Kate. I’m a pleasant way of unwinding after a rough day.”

She looked at him oddly. “And that doesn’t bother you?”

Ben shrugged. “Why should it? I sleep a lot better myself after a visit from you. Hey, if you just wanted something presentable to wear on your arm in public, you bet your ass I’d be bothered. In fact, I’d be gone. I’m no toy. And I’m no gigolo to be pampered and paid and turned into a rich woman’s pet. But as long as you want to have fun between the sheets—or against a wall—I’d be out of my mind if I objected.”

Her gaze was still thoughtful, considering. Automatically, her slender fingers checked to make sure her blouse was buttoned correctly and tucked into her skirt, that the skirt hung as it was supposed to. A quick touch reassured her that her hair was still neat, caught up in a twist.

Every inch the lady, Ben thought. There was just something
about
her, something beyond the way she dressed and moved, beyond the tranquil beauty of her face and the cool intelligence of her voice. Catherine Daulton was the kind of lady that a man instinctively respected—even when he watched her dress after a bout of hot sex.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” he said, shaking his head.

She was momentarily surprised, and a faint smile flitted across her lips. “For an old bag, you mean?”

Honestly surprised himself, Ben said, “Somebody been calling you old? It sure as hell wasn’t me. If it comes to that, I don’t even know how old you are. What the hell difference does it make, as long as we’re both past the age of consent?”

“No difference at all,” she said after a moment. “Give me a few minutes before you leave; we don’t have to go out of our way to stir up any more gossip.”

“About us? There isn’t any, Kate, at least not for
public consumption. In case you didn’t realize it, most of the people around here like you.”

She didn’t say anything to that, but Ben thought he had startled her yet again. It didn’t surprise him this time. He was no psychologist, but it didn’t take one to figure out why Kate would be surprised that people cared about her.

After all, her own father didn’t give a shit about her and didn’t care who knew it.

At the door, she turned suddenly to look at him. “Come to the house tonight.”

Ben knew very well he wasn’t being invited to supper. “I told you how I feel about that, Katie.”

“Don’t call me that,” she interrupted. “I’ve told you.”

She had indeed told him; she was as adamant about her name as she was about using protection. Maybe, Ben thought, she believed the diminutive lessened her in some way. He didn’t know, and hadn’t asked her about it.

He half nodded in acknowledgement, then continued on the subject of his visiting the house. “Aside from the danger of running into those bloodthirsty mutts of Jesse’s, I’d rather not creep in and out of your bedroom like a damned thief.”

“It wouldn’t excite you?”

“I don’t need to sneak anywhere to find you exciting. That’s hardly the point.”

“Oh? And what is the point?”

Ben realized he was still holding the washcloth, and tossed it toward the bathroom. “We both know what it is,” he told her wryly. “You aren’t quite brave enough to tell Jesse about us, but you’d love it if he caught us. It might even get a reaction out of him, huh?”

“Shut up.” Her eyes were glittering.

Without pursuing that, Ben merely shrugged. “Kate, I work for Jesse, and I like my job. If you think I’m going to crawl all the way out to the end of that limb You’ve got me on, you’re crazy. I’m out far enough as it is.”

She was silent for a moment, then murmured, “you’re a real son of a bitch, Ben.”

“Yeah.” He grinned. “But a horny son of a bitch, we both know that. I need to try out one of the new horses tomorrow, so I thought I’d ride up along the north trail during the afternoon, toward the waterfall. No training rides tomorrow, so it ought to be deserted up there. Quiet. Private. About three-thirty or so, I was thinking. If you happen to be exercising Sebastian around that time …”

“Maybe.” She drew a breath. “Maybe I will.” Then she slipped out of the apartment.

Ben’s smile died, and he stood there unmoving for a long time. It might have been kinder to tell her the truth, but so far he hadn’t been able to. He wasn’t really averse to sneaking into her bedroom, and he wasn’t afraid of losing his job if Jesse found out about them.

Because Jesse knew. He had always known about Kate’s men. And he didn’t give a shit.

A telephone call sent Jesse to his study to cope with paperwork just after they returned to the house (she’d been right about its being behind the locked door, and Jesse had the key in his pocket), so Amanda found herself alone with the dogs once again. She was a little surprised that they remained with her, but decided to view it as a good thing; being on the right side of guard dogs seemed infinitely preferable to the alternative. In any case, they were merely companionable,
staying close without getting in her way, and seemed content to be patted or talked to occasionally.

Neither seemed to take it personally that she chose to address them as “guys” rather than by name.

Still trying to get her bearings, Amanda found the correct hallway to take her into Glory’s rear wing, and continued exploring. Constructed more recently than the main house, it was nonetheless more than a hundred years old—though modernized like the rest.

The ground floor held a parlor—or sitting room or den, whatever it was called—along with a
very
large game room that boasted pool and Ping-Pong tables, and several pinball machines that seemed quaintly old-fashioned and would probably be worth a fortune one day. The game room opened out onto a patio by the swimming pool. The wing also contained a couple of guest suites, each composed of a sitting room, bedroom, and bathroom, very private and very nice.

Amanda hesitated when she reached the far end of the wing, where an exterior door provided access to the garden and a narrow but lovely staircase led up to the second floor. She assumed more bedrooms were upstairs, but until she knew if they were occupied, if family members or Maggie slept up there, she felt uneasy about exploring further.

Almost idly, she rested a hand on the newel post that was thick and heavily carved, her thumb rubbing over the time-worn ridges of a swirling abstract design. The entire house was impressive, so much so that it was overwhelming … something larger than life. People didn’t live this way anymore, at least not many of them.

She was about to turn and make her way back to the main house when the thuds of heavy footsteps descending the stairs froze her. A quick glance showed her that the dogs were calm, gazing upward with only
cursory interest, which told her they didn’t regard whoever was approaching as a threat.

Amanda wished she could have said the same.

He stopped on the landing when he saw her, his face going a little hard but not expressing nearly as much emotion as it had earlier. His black hair still damp from a recent shower, he was dressed more neatly than the last time she’d seen him, in dark slacks and a white shirt. He was rolling the sleeves of the shirt up over tanned and powerful forearms, and paused there on the landing to complete the task while he frowned down at her.

Then he continued down the stairs, not speaking until he stood on the polished wood floor a couple of feet away from her. He totally ignored the dogs, and they regarded him with acute detachment. “So, you’re Amanda.” His voice was deep, a touch impatient but not nearly as innately harsh as Jesse’s voice seemed to be.

She nodded just a little. “And you’re Sully.”

Without trying to be subtle, he looked her up and down quickly but thoroughly. “Well, you have the coloring, if not the size of most of us,” he observed somewhat mockingly. “But that hardly makes you Amanda Daulton. I’m sure you’ll forgive me a few lingering doubts.”

Amanda was too relieved by his obviously improved temper to let his suspicion bother her. “No, I expected as much,” she told him.

“Did you?” Sully’s smile was humorless. “But I’m one of the few voicing any doubts, right? Just me— and Walker, since it’s his job to be suspicious. Kate’s being her usual placid self, Maggie’s neutral, and Jesse’s already convinced you’re his beloved Amanda. And I’ll bet my brother’s already calling you cousin, since he wouldn’t dare oppose Jesse.”

She decided not to respond to that. Instead, she said, “Look, I want you to know that I didn’t … come back here to—to displace anybody.”

He shrugged, in open skepticism rather than unconcern, his gray eyes suddenly very hard. “Yeah, right. So why did you come here?”

It was, oddly enough, a question only Walker McLellan had asked her, and she gave Sully the same response. “Because after my mother died, I found out my real name, and I wanted to know the rest. Who I am, where I came from, what my family’s like. And why my mother chose to leave her husband and this place in the middle of the night—and never come back.”

Sully frowned down at her. “What makes you so sure you’ll find that last answer here? She’s gone, Brian’s gone, it’s been twenty years. We never knew what happened between Christine and Brian, and since he was killed just a few weeks later, We’ll probably never know.”

“You weren’t much older than I was then, so how can you remember what you may have seen or heard?”