Mystic Cowboy: Men of the White Sandy, Book 1 (13 page)

The flying lead change whipped her head up. “Excuse me?”

“Walter White Mouse. I wasn’t trying to piss you off. I didn’t know about your mother when I sent him away.”

She looked at him. All the playfulness gone from his face, all the movement gone from his body. Was this what he did when he saw those visions? “It’s okay. He got better.” It was a hard thing to admit, but she hadn’t been about to do anything for Mr. White Mouse. It was harder still to say what came next. But she wanted him to hear it. “And you were right. He couldn’t have afforded any of that anyway.” She cleared her throat. “Why don’t you like vaccines?”

He began to move again—not much, but she could see his fingers tapping on his leg. “Did you know that the government once gave my people blankets contaminated with smallpox?”

She blinked at him. If she only knew what he was going to say next. If she only had a clue. An inkling. The barest of hints. And yet... She answered carefully. “I read about that in school.”

“But you didn’t really believe it.” When she didn’t contradict him, he added, “And sick cattle. Institutionalized eradication.”

What was he implying? “You don’t think I’d give people tainted vaccinations, do you?”

“Not you—not on purpose.” The cynicism was back. She didn’t like it on him, not one bit. “I said the government did it. We’re just being...careful. Have you considered the possibility that it’s not the flu that’s making people sick?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not smallpox,” she snapped. “All the flu symptoms are there. You should be telling people to let me vaccinate them. Nobody wants the swine flu on top of the stomach flu.”

He laughed. He laughed? What the hell? Still smiling, he turned to look at her. Less cynical. More like he knew something she didn’t know. “Gotten any of those samples back? Got any proof it’s the flu?”

She felt like she was back in that exam room with him telling Mr. White Mouse to go to the sweat lodge again. He was holding out on her, but what the hell would a Traditional Master of Fine Arts know about viruses? “I’m going to call the lab on Monday.”

He looked at her and smiled. “Let me know. I’m not trying to make your life harder. Besides, they make some of those vaccines with mercury. Not good for anyone.”

The silence settled over them with the twilight. She didn’t believe anyone was out to get him—them—but she wouldn’t disagree on the larger principle. He had his reasons for doing what he did. It wasn’t just to drive her crazy. It was because he was trying to protect people. And he wanted proof.

He got some more wood for the fire and refilled her cup. Watching him move around the campfire was enough to make her wish she had a camera, or some paper and pencils, or something to help her remember this moment. She wasn’t a sentimental kind of woman, but she’d give anything to keep the sight of caramel-colored skin glowing in the flickering light in her memory. She didn’t have dreams this good. The tension from the vaccine debate faded in the warm glow of a summer evening. She’d never been camping before, but she was starting to think she might like it.

However, even this living dream had to bow to the pressures of reality. Her blisters began to throb. Sooner or later, she was going to have to get home.

Later wouldn’t be so bad, would it?

He knelt in front of her, backlit by the fire. She could just see his eyes as they moved over her and kept going until they reached the blisters. “How bad are they?”

“They’re fine.” The moment the words left her mouth, she shuddered. The reaction had been involuntary—but she knew he wasn’t buying it. If he ever had. She thought she saw his eyebrow arch. “Actually, they’re not so good.”

“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? I’ll be right back.”

Damn, but he moved fast when he wanted to. Within seconds, he was invisible in the dark, only the sound of his bare feet crunching on grass to tell her he was still there—somewhere. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve got a rack wagon. Keep all my supplies in it,” he called back from the dark.

She had no idea where he was—except she could tell he wasn’t up in the tent. In what she hoped was the far-away distance, a coyote howled. Mr. Steinman popped back into her head. She didn’t want to be eaten by any wildlife today, please and thank you. And she didn’t want Rebel to be eaten either.

And just as easily as he’d disappeared, he was back in the circle of light. “Let me see.” Sitting on his heels like it was the easiest thing in the world, he slid one hand down her calf and picked up her foot. She leaned back on her elbows, only a little nervous about this contact. They were dressed now. She wasn’t overheating. They weren’t in the water. And he was still touching her.

Nail polish. She needed some nail polish in the worst sort of way.

He whistled. “These are hard core.” His finger lightly stroked the sorest spot on her heel. Madeline winced. “Quarter-sized. Very impressive.” Then he was smearing something on each and every blister she had with a light enough touch that it only hurt a little.

So very good with his hands.

Have a little fun
, Mellie’s voice whispered in her ear.
I order you to have a good time.

She didn’t know how much more fun she could handle. Didn’t skinny dipping count as enough fun for one day? Besides, there was the small issue of protection. As in, she didn’t have any. And that was sort of a deal-breaker. Unintentional pregnancy was low on her list of things to do today. She cleared her throat. “What is that? Bear fat or something?”

“Traditional healing medicine,” he intoned as he set the finished foot on his thigh and started on the other one. His accent was suddenly twice as strong. “Its powers are mystical.”

And if she wasn’t mistaken, he sounded like he was trying not to laugh. “What do you call it?”

A single finger traced up her sole. “Neosporin.”

The giggle was as involuntary as the shivers had been earlier. He caught her foot as she tried to kick him. “You drive me crazy.” And that was fun, in and of itself.

Suddenly, he wasn’t fixing her blisters. He wasn’t touching her feet at all. His hands were up and down her calves, the palms rubbing front to back with that same slow, steady pressure that had been all over her back. When he’d undressed her. When she’d let him undress her.

“Is that such a bad thing?” he asked

No. No, it wasn’t. Nothing about this was bad, not even the blisters.
That
was two consenting adults, alone, in front of a romantic fire. True, it was mid-July and hotter than hell, but still. This was textbook stuff.

This was seduction. It had to be. And as he moved over her muscles like he’d spent a lifetime practicing for this very moment, she wasn’t sure she could remember her perfectly valid reasons for
not
succumbing. “Are you trying to seduce me?”

Really? Did she really just say that? Out loud?
Oops
.

He didn’t move. Not even to breathe. She was pretty sure. “No. I’m not trying.”

Embarrassment flooded her system.
He
drove her crazy? She drove herself insane sometimes. Leave it to her analytical little brain to ruin a perfectly fun time by trying to quantify things.

Sure seemed like it was time to go home.

But then he was moving again. He spread her legs wide apart and, just like a wolf getting ready to pounce, he
crawled
up between them. She watched him, powerless to do anything but hold the whimper in.
Crawled
. He was coming. For her.

His mouth grazed her breast at the same moment his groin touched hers. The sudden flash of heat that spiked between the two spots had nothing on the fire. His hips—oh, God—those hips that she’d seen rock countless times from across the clinic were suddenly rocking into hers, back and forth, over and over. Each time he moved against her was something new, something different.

Something
good
.

Didn’t matter that she was dressed. Didn’t matter if all this contact was through layers of fabric. Didn’t matter that she’d tried her best to ruin the moment.

Her body convulsed as his groin hit a spot she didn’t know she had. This time, she couldn’t fight back the whimper. Her body was beyond her control.

But not his.

By the time he made his way up to her face, she was helpless. “This,” he said, his voice low and serious and six different kinds of sexy, “is trying.”

When his lips touched hers, everything that had been soft about her shot stiff with the jolt that hit her. If she’d thought the shock she’d felt in the river was painful enough, this was downright agony—in the best possible way. Her nipples acted on their own, her legs weren’t listening to her, and even though she’d been thorough in drying off, she was suddenly damp all over again. And her arms? Her arms were around his neck again, where they’d been all afternoon, pulling him down so that she could kiss the hell out of him.

Third time’s the charm
, she thought. Bryce had been a bumbling teenager, where the thrill of getting caught had far outlasted the actual thrill of having her lips smashed with braces. Darrin, well, he’d been a fish. Open, close. Open, close. Repeat until bored. Just like their sex life.

But this? Rebel scraped his teeth along her lower lip with just enough pressure to drag her mouth open. Her blood was past pounding when he swept his tongue in. This was seduction. For the first time in her life, she was being seduced. Properly.

When he pulled back, his chest was heaving just as fast as hers was. He wasn’t just jerking her around. He
wanted
her.
Her
. Not her family name, not her lucrative profession. Just her.

“Madeline.” His voice, husky with need, strummed her in places she didn’t know could be played. But he knew the right tune. “Mad-e-line.” With each sound, he moved his hips. Too much more of this, and it wouldn’t matter that they were still both wearing jeans.

He would be amazing. Hell, who was she kidding? He
was
amazing. And this was about to get a whole lot more amazing.

The three months since pity sex with Darrin suddenly weren’t the longest three months in her life. No, she was suddenly quite sure she’d never really, truly had sex. Sure, she’d gone through the motions, but this wouldn’t be just a physical copulation. This wasn’t just sex, but something deeper, something more powerful than she’d ever dared to imagine, much less hold in her arms. This wasn’t
just
sex—was it?

“Stay with me,” he whispered as his fingers found curls. “Stay here with me.”

Not just sex. Not with him. “I...” He kissed her again, his whole body surging up to convince her that staying was the only, best option. Her body quaked underneath his.

“Stay,” he breathed. “Please.”

Chapter Eight

“Please.” He didn’t beg—he never begged, because he’d never had to—but even to his own ears, he was getting awful close. She felt so right under him, so right against him, that he couldn’t imagine her not staying there. Her curls, perfect in their wildness, spread out under her head, crowning her in silken glory as her eyes fluttered. She made that little whimpering noise again, a high, tight noise in the back of her throat. He leaned down and caught the noise with his mouth.

He’d beg if he had to. He’d never tasted anything as exquisite as the sound of her need. She needed him. She wanted him. And he’d do his damnest to give it to her. All of it.

Her body—damn the jeans—her body moved in perfect counterpoint to his. It gave when it needed to, met his with a show of sheer force when it had to. She dug her fingers into his back and pulled him up when she wanted more, but they were feather-soft against his skin when he pulled back. Her parted lips were begging for another kiss while her cheeks were still flushed from the last one. He propped himself up on one hand and let the fullness of her breast fill his hand. “Please.” He was begging. He had no choice.

Her nipples were at full attention as he rolled his thumb over her breast. Perfect—just enough to hold. Just like her. But then her head popped up and her eyes popped open, and he saw the alarm. The worry. The regret. And she grabbed his hand.

“I don’t have anything.” The change that came over her was plenty painful to watch, but more painful to feel. Her soft, giving center jerked away from him. She untwined her legs from his. Then she put her hand on his chest and pushed. She pushed him away. “We have to use something.”

The anger was a flash in the pan. For a white-hot second, he was furious with her for letting him get this far, and beyond furious with himself. He was going to have blue balls for a week, all because neither of them had a damned condom.

But then he looked down at her. The corners of her lips—that he’d been kissing—were pulled down into a frown. Her eyes had none of the challenge, none of the superiority that marked their earlier battles. Instead, she looked like she was going to cry.

That made two of them.

He let the anger leave his body. It didn’t take much of the desire-turned-frustration with it, but just enough that he could think straight. Of course they needed something. He wasn’t some stupid, hormonal teenager who thought only with his dick. He was a grown man, who already took care of enough accidents—Jesse, Nelly, and others—to last him a lifetime.

And, more than anything, he couldn’t push her. She was right. She was also miserable. Her lip quivered even though she couldn’t meet his gaze anymore. He couldn’t push her. Not now, not ever.