Hatfield and McCoy

Hatfield and McCoy

Heather Graham

Prologue

T
he dream came to her again that night, and she smiled in her sleep. It was a sweet dream, and she welcomed it as she would a lover.

Ah, but it was a dream that brought her a lover and warmth and soft, sensual pleasure.

She never saw his face. She was always looking out the window, looking at the rich grasses and beautiful blues and greens of summer … or perhaps it was spring. There was always a light breeze. The kind of breeze that just lightly lifted her hair.

And then she would know that he was in the room.

She would know …

Because of a subtle, masculine scent. She would know because she would feel him there.

And the warmth and tenderness would fill her. She knew him, knew the man, and knew things about him that made her love him. She didn't need to see his face. Didn't need to know the color of his eyes, or the color of his hair.

She knew all the hues within his heart and soul and mind, and those colors were all beautiful and part of the warmth that touched her.

He could move so silently …

He would be coming across the room to her, and she would know it, and she would smile. She would know that he was coming closer, because she could always feel him near. Feel the security, the supreme sense of well-being, that came to her when she was with him.

Her lover …

Tonight …

He stood behind her and swept the fall of her hair from her neck, and she felt the wet, hot caress of his lips against her nape.

The pleasure was startling. So startling that a certain embarrassment touched her in her sleep, nearly ending the dream.

But her sleep was deep, and her enchantment was even deeper.

He held back her hair, and his kiss skimmed over her shoulder. She wore something that hugged her body. Something dark. He lifted the strap from her shoulder. Even the feel of the fabric leaving her skin was erotic.

By his touch, by his command, the garment fell from her shoulders. Bit by bit, the clothing was peeled from her body. And bit by bit it fell away to the ground, in a pool of darkness at her feet.

His arms encircled her. She could feel the strength of his naked chest as he pulled her against him. He still wore jeans. She could feel the roughness of the fabric against the tender skin of her bare flanks. Even that touch was sensual.

So vividly sensual. Even in a dream.

And she knew that she dreamed …

His whisper touched her ear. She could not hear the words, but a lazy smile came to her lips. Then she was turning against him.

She didn't see his face.

She felt his kiss.

Felt the hungry pressure of his lips, forming over her own, firmly, demandingly, causing them to part for the exotic presence of his tongue.

He'd kissed her before …

Never quite like this.

And when his lips left her mouth, they touched her throat. Touched the length of it. The soft, slow, sensual stroke of his tongue just brushing her flesh. With ripples of silken, liquid fire. She could see his hands, broad, so darkly tanned, on the paleness of her skin. His fingers were long, handsomely tapered, calloused, but with neatly clipped nails. Masculine hands. Hands that touched with an exciting expertise. Fingers that stroked with confidence and pleasure.

She allowed her head to fall back, her eyes to close. The sensations to surround her.

The breeze … it was so cool against her naked body. So soft. So unerringly sensual. Perhaps because her body was so hot. Growing fevered. But the air … it touched her where his kiss left off, and both fire and ice seemed to come to her and dance through her.

She spun in his arms. It was no longer daytime. Shadows were falling, and the breeze was growing cooler.

And his kiss went lower.

And where his lips touched her, she burned.

And where his lips had lingered earlier, the cool air stroked her with a sensuality all its own.

She dreamed, she tried to tell herself.

It was not real.

But within her dream lover's arms, his kiss lowered. And lowered until he teased the base of her spine. His hand caressed her naked buttocks and hips, and she was turning in his arms.

Her hand rested on his head, her breath quickened and caught, and quickened again. She cried out, amazed at the tempest that rose within her, startled by the sheer sensual pleasure that ripped through her.

She cried out again and again, and then discovered that she was sinking, sinking into his arms …

Night had come. The moon remained in the sky, but she could not see clearly.

She still did not see his face. She could touch and feel, but she could not see his face.

Not that she was thinking. Not even in the dream could she reason or think, for she was with him, touching him, knowing the living warmth and fire of him. Feeling the ripple of muscle in his chest. Feeling his hands. Feeling the pulse of his body. Feeling … him.

It was vivid. So vivid.

She could feel him entering her …

She began to fight the dream. It was too vivid. It was decadent …

Even in the privacy of sleep, it was embarrassing.

And still, she knew what went on. She knew the moment in the dream when the stars burst and the sky seemed to turn a glorious gold, and then to blacken again.

She knew the absolute amazement she felt at the force of the love they shared. She knew the shattering pounding of her heart, the desperate scramble to breathe again, the sheen of perspiration that bathed them both like a lover's dew. …

For it was sweet, all so very sweet. He would envelop her in his arms. She would lie upon his shoulder and feel that incredible security and the simple pleasure of being together. She would reach out and hold him and she knew that she would see his face …

But the tenderness did not come, nor did the overwhelming feeling of well-being.

A different feeling had been coming on … coming on for long, long moments.

Then it seized her. Seized her firmly. Darkness. A startling, terrifying darkness. A presence. Near them.

And she cried out.

What is it?

She heard his whisper. She tried to talk. She was choking, and she was so frightened. Her jaw was locked. Constricted. She fought so hard.

He's here! He can see us!

No …

Oh, my God! He's trying to watch us
.

No, he cannot watch us.

But the feeling wouldn't leave her. She closed her eyes, tightly. Still, there suddenly seemed to be a light. A blinding light.

She saw a man's shoulder. Fleetingly, in that light. A bronzed shoulder. There was a short but jagged scar on it.

The light faded. She couldn't see anything.

She was disoriented. Confused. Frightened.

Had she seen her lover's shoulder…?

Or had it been his? The man who watched. The one who so terrified her …

Julie …

Her lover whispered to her. He tried to reassure her. He was confident in his own strength. He didn't believe. He didn't understand.

It was so frightening. Did the scar belong to a man who would hold her against all danger?

Or did it belong to a cold-blooded killer?

Julie! Julie, please …

I'm afraid
, she told him. She didn't say it out loud. And he denied any sixth sense.

But this time, he had heard her.

I'm with you.

She strained. Strained against the darkness. If only she could see his face, it would be all right. If she could just see her lover's face …

But there was too much darkness. She couldn't see.

And the terror was beginning to suffocate her. She couldn't breathe.

The darkness was coming closer and closer.

She awoke with a start and realized she was screaming.

“Oh!”

With a gasp, she turned on her bedside lamp. She was still shaking. She was drenched with perspiration.

She looked around the room. Nothing had changed. She was home, safe on her mountain.

“What a dream!” she murmured.

She rose, still hot and flushed, and walked into the kitchen for a long drink of water, then returned to bed. She smiled sheepishly. “I wonder if that was a defense mechanism against this dream lover of mine,” she rationalized aloud. “Oh, but a shrink would have a heyday with me!”

She grinned and laid her head down. The fear was gone. Completely gone. It was incredibly easy to close her eyes and sleep again.

No more dreams taunted her. When she awoke in the morning, she had forgotten just how frightened she had been. She speculated about the dream man as she showered, grinning, wondering if she would ever meet the man. If she would stand in the breeze, and feel his caress …

She groaned aloud. Patty would blame her life-style, she was certain. Too secluded.

And so, so often, when she dreamed …

She flushed.

Maybe she would meet him.

For just a moment, she felt a tinge of fear. As if the darkness was coming over her again.

But then it was gone. She gave herself a firm mental shake.

And she started to wonder again. About him.

She showered, dressed and made herself a cup of tea and an English muffin. She speculated once again about her mystery lover as she curled up on the huge chair on the porch that overlooked both mountain and valley. She felt wonderfully at ease.

And it was then that the phone began to ring.

Chapter 1

T
hey were destined to come together and to clash.

But that first time Julie saw the man—for all her intuitive powers—she had no idea that she would ever see him again.

Nor did she want to!

She was in a hurry. Admittedly, she was very much in a hurry. But when she rounded the corner in her little Mazda, she was certain that she had the right of way. She hadn't even seen the Lincoln that came around from the opposite side at exactly the same time.

And so they rammed, head first, right into one another.

Luckily, they were both going five miles an hour, and both cars had huge, brand-new bumpers.

They collided and bounced.

Shaken, Julie realized that they had been really lucky. They had struck one another just as if they had been playing bumper cars. There was no damage to her car, and she was certain that there was no damage to the heavier Lincoln.

She could drive away. Thank God. She couldn't afford the time to exchange insurance information or wait around to make a police report.

The other car started to back away. She sighed with relief. She revved her car and backed away from the Lincoln. Then she paused politely.

But the other driver was pausing, too.

They both paused.

And paused.

Julie squinted, trying to see the driver. It was a man, she discerned. And he was letting her go first.

He gave a short bump to his horn.

She started at the sound, then jerked forward.

He eased forward, too.

Once again, they slammed together.

They were playing bumper cars. Julie smiled.

She started to wave at the driver in the Lincoln. But watching him, she felt her smile begin to freeze.

He wasn't smiling. Nor was he going to drive away this time.

He was getting out of his car and coming her way.

He was wearing black jeans, a black leather jacket and dark sunglasses. He was somewhere between thirty and forty—big, tall, broad-shouldered, but lean and graceful in his movements.

And he reached her window quickly. Damned quickly.

“Are you hurt?” he demanded.

“No,” she said quickly. “No, I'm not hurt.”

“Are you sure? Absolutely sure?”

Her smile came to life again. He seemed concerned, honestly concerned. And he had such a deep, rich, masculine voice. She didn't just hear his voice; she felt it. With all of her body. It left a pleasant, shivery warmth inside her.

He had a nice, clean-shaven jawline—a strong one. And a nice mouth. Full, broad. Warm and sensual.