Breaking the Rules (20 page)

He glanced at her again. How could he resist?

Had the blanket slipped a little lower or was that wishful thinking? A little more of her leg showed now, there was no doubt about that. He could see the vulnerable flesh of her inner thigh just above her knee. What would she do if he eased over there and kissed that place?

Into the long silence, Mattie said, “Penny for your thoughts.”

He jerked his gaze up. “What?”

“Penny for your thoughts,” she said again, and there was a spark of mischief in her eyes. She lifted her coffee cup and the blanket did slip this time, almost all the way down. It hung tantalizingly at the edge of her breasts, ready to fall away the next time she took a breath.

Damn.

He put down his coffee cup deliberately. Gathering the robe around his thighs, he stepped into the shallow pool and waded over to her. “I’m thinking it’s time, now, Miss Mary.”

With a wide-eyed gaze, she stared at him. “Is it?” He reached for the edge of the blanket and slipped a hand below it. As he’d known it would, the fabric tumbled from her breasts, from her body, fell around her nakedness like the shed shell of a newly born wood nymph.

He groaned and swayed forward to kiss her throat, brushing her breasts with his hands. Her limbs were trembling again as he let his mouth descend, let his mouth burn a trail over her breasts and belly and secret heat, over a slim white thigh to that vulnerable place on the inside of her knee. He paused there and bit her lightly. She made a low, pained sound and tugged at his robe. Zeke stepped back to shake it off, caring little that it was soaked as he dragged it through the water.

Mattie reached for him. “Let me touch you,” she whispered, sliding forward until she could join him, face-to-face in the small pool. She spread her palms open on his chest and touched him all over, smoothing his chest and arms, his hips and buttocks and belly. But they’d waited too long for much play. When she took his heat into her hand, he groaned and captured her small naked form against him. Dragging the blanket from the bench to the floor, he lifted her from the pool and lay her down on the thin soft pallet.

He covered her with himself, and struggling for control, trapped her between his legs and arms, stretching her arms over her head to kiss her hard. Mattie lifted her head and kissed him back, furiously, a soft, panting noise coming from her throat. The sound brought the savagery to him again, that wild, demonic need to possess her. He moved his body against hers to feel her breasts and the tantalizing whisper of her female heat against his raging organ.

In spite of the mark it would leave, he suckled her neck, and heard the low, aroused sound in her throat intensify. He bent his head over her breasts and tasted her nipples, using his tongue to bring that writhing to a fever pitch. She arched upward, pressing herself into him, asking the thing he wanted most to give.

He let her arms go and kissed her belly. Mattie dragged him up to her, to kiss him, deeply and hungrily. His control came undone. With a pained groan, he shifted and she accommodated him eagerly, parting her legs, offering herself.

The kissing was too much, too intimate, he thought. He should stop kissing her. But her mouth was like a potent spell—the more he drank, the more he needed. He couldn’t stop. He clasped her soft breast in his hand and held her lips and eased his manhood into her wet and waiting heat. Oh, just a little at a time, just a little, so he wouldn’t hurt her. But she arched suddenly, shifting her body to bring him home, and Zeke groaned at the searing pleasure of being fully sheathed in Mattie. Mattie.

Then there was no thought. He grabbed her shoulders and thrust, feeling her rise and swell and whimper as they moved in ways not simple or easy or calm, only purely, desperately hungry.

As they moved, he felt the earth shift around him, as if his place in the universe had been suddenly changed. He looked down at Mattie’s face, and even in the midst of his passion, he was overwhelmed with details—the fan of her long eyelashes over her sun-kissed cheeks, the spray of her hair on her ear, the perfection of her long white throat—and it didn’t feel like anything he’d known before.

He kissed her and kissed her and kissed her, moving in her mouth and in her body, overcome with a painful rippling sense of rightness. She began to quiver, lost, and clutched his shoulders fiercely.

He lifted his head and slowed down, kissing her gently now, drawing out her pleasure. Not to illustrate his prowess, but because he could see by the wonder in her face this was a new sensation, that she’d not made acquaintance with her body this way before. His breath came in heavy, uneven rasps, but he held on, teasing her mouth with his tongue, touching her breasts with his hands, letting that power build and build and build—

She came apart, and Zeke let go, driving into her without restraint, thrilling to the cry that escaped her throat. Her body convulsed around him, a roaring filled his ears.

He splintered into a billion pieces.

His heart, made of thinnest glass, shattered.

And rather than look into her face, rather than let her know what she’d done, he waited until the pulsing of her body was finished, until his was done, and eased away. He didn’t look at her, only stood up and went out into the rain to hide.

* * *

At first, Mattie was stunned. Her body still rippled with the power of their joining. She was not a virgin, but she might as well have been for the difference she felt in herself now. His departure left her cold, but worse than that, she felt as if he’d taken a part of her—ripped away a shard of her soul as he stood up and ran into the rain.

Behind the shock came anger, pure and white, filling every corner and unknown cranny of her mind. She jumped up and grabbed the blanket to wrap around her and stormed outside.

Rain blinded her momentarily, and the ground was muddy beneath her feet. Clutching the blanket around her newly warm body, she shivered at the press of rain, looking around for Zeke. He was nowhere in sight.

She paused, frowning, hoping she wouldn’t lose this anger before she found him. It was about time he got a piece of her mind for this on-and-off, hot-and-cold nonsense. Did men think women were immune to sexual feelings? That they could just turn them off at will?

An odd sound of water reached her, not the rain. She listened carefully and remembered the shower.

She rounded the small building and saw him standing under the warm water of the outdoor shower, his hair soaked once again by a combination of rain and shower water. His skin shimmered with pearlescent light, the last breath of day seeming to concentrate here, on him, on the long limbs corded with muscle, on the lean lines of his scarred and beautiful back, on his buttocks and thighs and calves, on his bent head and rigidly clasped fists.

He looked—broken.

Her anger dissolved instantly. Dragging her soaked blanket with her, she went to him, dropping her covering when she reached the platform. Without a word, she joined him in the hot-and-cold water pouring down upon them, pressed her body against his back and put her arms around his body. The thick puckered scar pressed into her ear and she turned her face to kiss it.

He turned, big as a bear, and kissed her. Now she tasted desperation, a lostness as gray as the day, and she held him close, stroking his arms and his face, touching his chest. Slowly, feeling his need, she explored his body with her lips and her hands—the lean ropy arms and broad chest, his hard waist, the silky, pointed weight of his manhood. And when he was groaning, clutching her hair, she kissed him again. He lifted her easily, bracing her on the edge of the rail, and drove himself into her with a fury that had nothing to do with violence and everything to do with love.

She loved him. The thought came to her in the aftermath, with her head nestled on his shoulder, her legs wrapped easily around his waist, his arms locked around her back. Rain poured around them softly and Mattie felt as if it were washing away everything. The past. The future. The false starts and false messages and false fronts each had erected against the other. It poured over them, salty and fresh and clean.

At last, Zeke moved, lifting his head to look at her. So serious. She touched his face. “What pagans we are,” she said softly.

“Yeah.” The word was thick with satisfaction. He looked up at the rain and closed his eyes, his hands still wrapped around her back. Mattie knew with an acute awareness that she would always remember this moment: both of them nude in the falling twilight of a mountain summer, sated and yet still hungry, Zeke’s strong face tipped to received the gift of rain, his broad hands warm on her. She lifted her own face to it, feeling again the strange sense of power that had come upon her in this shower once before, only this time it was stronger, wilder—she was the trees and the rain and Zeke and herself all at once.

He kissed her suddenly and scooped her into his arms. “We’re going to catch our death of cold out here. I’m also starving.”

“What are we going to wear back to the house? Everything is soaked.”

“We’ll walk. Like Adam and Eve.”

“Don’t you ever get visitors up here?”

“Never. Not even once.” He looked down at her. “You’re the first human who’s ever seen the place.”

“What about the propane man?”

“He won’t be here till tomorrow.”

“I still feel weird walking all over creation with no clothes on.”

“Then let’s run.” He grabbed her hand and with a shriek, Mattie ran after him, sure at any moment someone would drive up the road, or a helicopter would fly over. He seemed to have no such worries. They dashed inside and both dived for the bed, grabbing the sleeping bag to cover themselves in.

Damp, laughing, they gravitated toward each other. Nestled in warmth, they slept.

B
rian cursed the rain. The Pagosa Springs records had no listing for Zeke Shephard. The woman there referred him to Creede. He located the small town on the map and tamped down his frustration. It was another ninety or a hundred miles, over twisting, high mountain roads.

Thanking the woman cheerfully, he returned to the motel where Vince watched reruns of
I Love Lucy
on the small television. “We’ve gotta go,” he said.

“In this?” Vince pointed to the pouring gray rain falling beyond the windows. “You must be outta your mind.”

“Rain or no rain, we’ve got to find that bitch. Two days I’ve got to get this right, or it’s your life and mine, Vincent.” He flipped off the television. “Get moving.”

“Bri, have you ever driven mountain roads?”

“No. Have you?”

“Not until this trip. You notice how narrow they are, how wide that El Camino is?” He gestured to the window. “Now they’ll be slick, too. It’s suicide to get out in this mess.”

“Move,” Brian said without flickering an eyebrow.

Vince slitted his eyes. “What are you gonna do if I say I ain’t gonna do it?”

It was the last rebellion in a very long list. Brian pulled the revolver from his shoulder holster. “I’ll kill you,” he said without emotion.

Vince eyed the weapon with pursed lips. No fear flickered over the sallow face. “It ain’t worth dying over,” he said at last, picking up the keys.

* * *

After a time, Mattie stirred awake. The cabin was cool and dim, lit only by the lantern. Zeke held her close, his big arms draped heavily over her shoulders. For a moment, his huge, engulfing presence was startling, but her memory seeped back. The sauna. The shower. She blushed, thinking of the run back up the hill.

She had no desire to move just yet, and because his hand hung in full view, she touched it. An enormous, long-fingered hand, tanned with his outdoor pursuits, strong with the work he did. His nails were short and flat and oval.

Working hands. The incidents of a lifetime showed there. New little scrapes—one on his middle knuckle, another tiny cut by one fingernail. She glimpsed a callus on his palm.

And there on the wrist, where the flesh was thinnest, most sensitive, was a perfectly round, whitish scar. Old. Almost faded.

Mattie brushed her thumb over the lingering reminder of the brutality Zeke had faced as a child. There were probably a dozen or more on his body, each one the imprint of a cigarette cruelly held to young flesh in punishment.

The average person had trouble imagining how a father could repeatedly, deliberately inflict such pain on a child, Mattie knew. She forgave them the inability, because it meant most people were too compassionate to allow that such horror existed.

Mattie had seen it. Not always this kind of brutality, not always even physical. In her tenure in foster homes, she’d found good people, kind people, and she’d found a brutal one. She’d also heard the stories of the other children in the homes—most who were not orphans, like Mattie, but wards of the state because their parents had so neglected or abused them. Horrible stories.

She traced the lines on his thumb, touched the flat nail. For all that she had suffered loss, her first six years had been spent in the bosom of a mother and father who loved her—and after seeing the homes many a child was born to, it was something she’d learned to be grateful for.

Zeke stirred. “What are you thinking about?” he said sleepily.

“My parents.”

His fingers curled around her hand. “Do you remember them?”

Mattie brushed away the mists of time and called up the picture she carried of her mother. “A little. It’s more of a feeling of warmth, smells, snips of things.”

“Tell me.”

“My mother smelled of lilacs. Lilac dusting powder. And she had really long, pretty hair.” One memory was clear—her mother combing Mattie’s hair, even then very long, to her waist. “My dad worked at a newspaper as a printer. I remember this pungent odor of ink and sweat and cigarette smoke. He had a flat-top haircut.”

Zeke touched her hair. “I still like it this way,” he said. “It suits you.”

Mattie shifted in his arms. “You never saw it long.”

“True. Bet you hid behind it.”

She chuckled at this accuracy. “I miss it most when I wish I could duck behind something. Very convenient.”