Holm, Stef Ann (31 page)

"My
manager, George Dunlap, sent me out there after the ninety-five season. I had a
bad year and he told me to get out of town and rethink why I played ball."
His mouth all but touched hers. She could practically feel the vibration of his
lips while he spoke. "I went. What the hell did I have to lose? So I
stayed at a lodge and I had nothing to do. I'd get up and walk out to this
meadow I found and I hit baseballs. No one was around to hunt them down for me,
so I had to find them myself." He brought his lips over hers. So briefly,
so lightly, she almost thought she had imagined the kiss. "What do you
have on your mouth?"

His
sudden change in topic had her lifting her lashes to stare into his eyes. At
the time, it had seemed a silly whim to have bought the cosmetic. Now that
she'd been found out, she felt ridiculous. "Lip rouge."

Alex
scowled. "What the hell for?"

"Because...
it's called Rose Delish."

Raising
his arm, he rubbed the pad of his thumb slowly over her lower lip, removing the
traces of rose pink rouge. Her breath came out in a shaky exhale as he touched
her as intimately as if they were lovers. "Am I supposed to know what that
is?"

"Maybe..."
Her voice was but a choked whisper. She wouldn't dare say why she thought he
should. It seemed insignificant now. Nothing else mattered but the two of them.
In this room. Together. At this moment.

He
kissed her once more, with a lazy exploration that made her bones feel like
they were melting. "You do taste delicious. But then you always have to
me, honey."

Oh
God.
That
made Camille bring her arms around Alex's neck and hold him. For some strange
reason, she wanted to cry. The broad expanse of his chest became her pillow;
her cheek lay against him, her head was tucked beneath his chin. A heady, musky
scent clung to his skin, making her so aware of him, it was almost anguishing
to be this close. "Is that how the bear found you? In the meadow?"

"Yeah."
His voice rumbled beside her ear. "I heard a crack above my head and a low
growl. I barely had time to see what was coming down on me from the tree. The
next thing I knew, she'd straddled my chest and I couldn't go anywhere. Once
you hear that snarl, you never forget it." The blunt ends of his
fingernails moved over the silk of her wrapper as he lightly stroked her back.
The slow, deliberate motion raised the gooseflesh on her arms.

In
a voice just barely audible, she asked, "Then what happened?"

"I
didn't move. Maybe I should have tried to run, but the honest truth is, I was
too scared. I felt my legs grow numb and I didn't know how badly I'd been cut
until I felt the stickiness of blood at my shoulder." He pressed a kiss at
her temple, making standing difficult. "My first thought was,
Don't let
it be my pitching arm."

Camille
lifted her face to his. "How did you get away?"

"The
grizzly just went off on her own after a few minutes. I figured I could walk
back to the lodge, take a few stitches, and be all right in a day or two.
Damned if I didn't get fifty-six of them and end up stuck in bed for a month. I
don't remember how I made it back. Determination, I guess. She cut me good. On
the shoulder." He stood back and pointed to the side of his abdomen, where
rows of tiny scars were barely visible. "On the stomach. On the
back." He turned so that she could see the opposite shoulder. "On my
legs." His hand went for the button fly of his denims.

She
blurted, "I don't need to see."

"Don't
you?" The beginnings of a smile tipped the corners of his mouth.

The
distraction he presented was difficult to resist. Trying to keep her thoughts
clear, she said, "So you stayed in Montana for a while, then went back to
Baltimore?"

Bringing
her close once more, he murmured, "Something like that."

"What
do you mean?"

"I
mean I watched the sun rise and set for the first time in my life and I
appreciated it. I felt a soul connection with that grizz. It had more to do
with being a survivor than anything else." He ran his palms down her arms,
then slid his hands upward inside the sleeves of her wrapper, until he caressed
her shoulders. "I stayed in Montana for the rest of the winter." His
lips claimed hers again in a kiss that lingered. "I had the tattoo put on
by an Indian man. At times," he said, his mouth continuing to graze hers
as he spoke, "I can still feel the grizz's paw on me. That quick and
sinewy power. That's why I wanted the tattoo before I left Alder. To make sense
out of the attack. If I could see the grizz with me, it would be real and I'd be
better for its having happened to me. And that's how Alex 'the Grizz' Cordova
came back to the city."

His
hands pulled her closer. The swells of her breasts crushed against him in sweet
agony. "And you never told anybody the reason why."

"Nope."
His fingers massaged, easing away her tension. "I pitched the best season
of my career afterward. We won the pennant. Year after that, we won it again...
and then we might have the next... but..."

His
words trailed off and he kissed her, slipping his tongue between her lips. The
kiss turned heated and wanton, their mouths clinging together. Alex pushed her
wrapper off her shoulders. It floated to her ankles. His tongue probed the
recesses of her mouth sensually. It was quite drugging—quite the most
extraordinary feeling she'd ever had.

She
reached up to slip her fingers into his hair, holding his head close to hers,
kissing him without thought or regard for consequences. His hair was long and
glossy, silky to her touch. She loved the feel of it. She loved his mouth on
hers, his tongue dueling with hers.

"I
recognized your hat today," he said between kisses. "I told you not
to wear it."

"I
wanted to."

"You
fixed it up."

Her
mouth caught his. "I unfixed it. I like my hat."

"You
do?"

"I
do. When I wear it, I think of you."

He
backed her toward the bed. She made no protest as he leaned over her and
lowered her into the comforter to lay beside her. His fingers slid up her
waist, then tilted her face so he could kiss her with a lazy and swirling
penetration of his tongue. She should have taken this moment for what it was—
stolen, fleeting. It was harmless. Or was it?

In
spite of telling herself it shouldn't matter, she asked against the wet
fullness of his mouth, "Why didn't you come to dinner?"

"It
just wasn't the right day to celebrate."

"Why
not?"

He
combed her hair with his fingers, catching a fistful and bringing it to his
lips. "I had something to do."

Looking
up into his face, she searched his eyes. "What?"

"You
ask a lot of questions." He took her jaw between his hard fingers.

He
was about to kiss her when she raised her fingertips and pressed them on his
mouth. "Because today you've been answering them."

For
a long moment, he said nothing. His voice was low and deep, thick with desire
when he answered. "I was at church."

She
didn't move. His reply took her utterly by surprise. "Church?"

"Yeah.
I've been known to go in one every now and then." The ends of his hair
tickled her nose as he dropped down to kiss the side of her neck.

"Really?
Church?"

Putting
his weight on his arms, he straightened his elbows. "Church of the
Immaculate Conception on Harrison Avenue."

Embarrassed,
she blurted, "You weren't with Miss Delish?"

"Who?"

His
finger traced the edge of her underwaist. Her breasts strained at the tight fit
of fabric, leaving little more than her nipples hidden in the piece of
underwear. "Never mind." She shivered with unbridled pleasure as he
slowly grazed her damp skin, exploring the curves and valleys, looking at her.

Light
caught the medal around his neck. It swung on the chain away from his chest.
She lifted her hand to capture it. It was indeed a man wearing a robe, staff in
hand and crossing what looked to be water, carrying a child on his back.
"What's this called?"

"Saint
Christopher."

"Who
is he?"

"The
patron saint of travelers. My grandfather gave him to me. He's supposed to keep
me safe."

"Does
he?"

His
mouth curved. "Not when I'm with you, Miss Kennison."

She
heated like an ignited match when his fingertip teased her nipple. It rose,
hard and swift, beneath the circles his fingertip made. "Why don't you
call me Camille anymore?"

"If
I don't call you Miss Kennison, I'm liable to get real comfortable with you. Do
you want that?"

She
swallowed. Right now, she didn't know what she wanted. Yes, she did, but it
came with a price. Change. Change in the way Alex would view her. The way she
would view herself. Flirtations, coquettish laughter, and her arm through a
man's while strolling... that had been the extent of her experiences with men.

Until
Alex.

No
man had ever kissed her the way he did, touched her breast, her nipple. No one
had ever made her want to feel every inch of his naked skin, be with him in a
way she never should have thought about.

He'd
shown her she could be passionate. Could crave intimacy and the pleasure it
brought her body. But if she let him know her in the way that a husband knew
his wife... She didn't want to confuse what she was feeling now with love. Love
couldn't be reasoned out of. It was a woman's greatest bliss—but her deepest
sorrow when lost. She'd read poetry. She knew that more times than not, it came
with bittersweet pangs.

Beyond
that, marriage wasn't something she thought about. Perhaps in the future...
With one touch, Alex made her feel like she was the only woman he'd ever
desired to be with.

Her
heart fluttered wildly as she gazed up at him. "What I want is for you to
call me Camille."

He
lowered his head within inches of hers. The air stirred by the fan passed over
them and did little or nothing to cool her skin. She lay there, drowning in a
flood tide of heat. Her whole body felt thirsty.

Several
seconds lapsed, then Alex softly kissed her.

Her
arms came over his shoulders as if they belonged there, now and for always,
holding
him
close as he kissed her.

Time
was suspended.

Alex
pushed up her underblouse until it came to her collarbone. From the way they
lay beside one another, the whalebone of her corset barely kept her breasts
firmly in place. He pulled the top hooks, freeing her breasts from their tight
confinement. He bent his head over her, stroking one nipple with his tongue.
Camille sucked in her breath, her back arching as he traced a slow circle
around her with his tongue.

His
touch felt so good it almost made her chest ache. Her mind reeled. Feeling this
way made her crazy, and at the same time, she didn't want the feelings to end.
She wanted to have him in her arms forever.

Between
the damp caresses he gave her breast, he asked, "You want me to
stop?"

"No!"
Her reply was too quick, too telling.

He
pulled her into his mouth again, hot darts of pleasure warming the center of
her. The flat of his belly pressed snug against her side. When he spoke, his
head was still bent forward. "Are you sure?"

That
he had to ask... "Yes." His hair tickled her skin and caused her to
shiver.

She
clutched his shoulders. The fine stubble on his chin abraded her as he nuzzled
the valley between her breasts.

"No
man has given you a hat but me," he murmured. "And I'd bet that no
man ever has"—he caught the fabric of her skirt and inched the hem up to
her waist—"done this."

Her
heartbeat pounded in her ears. "No."

A
smile bracketed his mouth. "Then I'd better make sure you like this better
than the hat."

Oh
God.

Without
her being completely aware of what he'd been doing, he'd taken her skirt and
petticoat and brought both folds of fabric to her waist. His hands slowly
caressed, teased... explored. His fingers trailed up her inner thigh and made
her shudder. The building pressure in her was so intense, she couldn't speak.

"You
lost your stockings and shoes," he said, gazing down at her.

"I
left them in my room."

"A
good place for them" His fingertip traced the hooks and eyes down her
corset front. She couldn't help arching her back. His brown eyes darkened, as
he watched her face, gauging her reaction as she gasped for breath in response.

Exposed
to his hot gaze were her French-patterned pantalets that were so delicate, they
did little to cover her. His warm palm cupped the apex between her legs.

His
touch shocked her. She should have told him to stop. Without conscious thought,
her thighs separated when they should have clamped together.