Once a Rancher (12 page)

“I'm afraid you're right.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

O
NCE
THEY
REACHED
the vineyard, Slater held Grace's hand again.

His fingers entwined with hers, his grasp light but firm, and the effect was decidedly romantic. When he'd reached over, she had to admit to being surprised because it was such a simple gesture from a man she suspected was more passionate than sentimental. However, having seen him with his gregarious family, she was getting a better sense of him as a person. Slater might be able to scorch a woman right down to the tips of her toes with a kiss, but his talents didn't end there.

She wasn't sure if he was good or bad for her at this time in her life, but she
liked
him.

The night sky was speckled with stars, and the moon had risen above the mountains, spreading a soft glow over the landscape. A low wail came from a distance, far enough away that it merely gave her goose bumps.

“Wolf,” Slater confirmed, sounding pragmatic. “Drake is having some problems with our stock, and we're wondering if they're the issue.”

They'd driven to the vineyard in his truck, since it was a few miles from the house, and he'd parked by the building she'd seen online. It was even more striking, even more attractive, than the photographs had suggested. Grace murmured admiringly, impressed by its rustic elegance. She wasn't immune, either, when Slater continued to hold her hand as he led her toward a shaded path between the vines.

“Mace actually should probably be here to explain what's what, but excuse me if I wasn't in the mood for a third wheel who can be a smart-ass now and then. I exaggerated my tour guide skills. I can't tell a merlot vine from a weed. It's a vineyard. Now you know as much as I do.” He paused. “Considering your job, you probably know more.”

Grace appreciated his sense of humor. “You and your brothers all seem very close.” It was beyond obvious that he loved his family.

His fingers tightened on hers. “Despite their various quirks, I guess we are. And I'm just as guilty as they are on that count, having my share of quirks, I mean. If you're looking for a nine-to-five guy who wants meat loaf every Monday night, his last name isn't Carson. At least not around here, it isn't.”

She wasn't looking for
any
sort of man, period. On the other hand, there he was, walking next to her, tall in the moonlight, his features shadowed, gazing down at her as if waiting for a response.

“You do all seem very different, but similar in certain ways, too.” A neutral remark seemed the safest. Grace felt some conflicting emotions at the moment. She wanted to run as far and fast as possible, but at the same time, she was drawn to him. He was an artist and yet a cowboy, a history scholar who could handle a spirited horse effortlessly, and he might just have the world's sexiest smile...

“I agree. Let's set aside the Carson bunch for a bit, shall we? I like how we are now, just you and me. Between their nosiness and Ryder being your responsibility, moments like this will be hard to come by.”

Moments like this?
He spoke as if there were plans for future involvement.

And he also had a point. Privacy was virtually impossible unless, as he'd suggested, they went somewhere together. “Is that a presumption on your part—that I want time alone with you?”

The breeze ruffled his dark hair and he stopped walking and pulled her into his arms. “Yes, ma'am. Don't you?”

It wasn't as if she didn't know a romantic walk was going to lead to a passionate kiss. His hunger came through clearly, and yet the embrace was gentle, appropriate to the setting, and Grace might have acted more urgent, threading her fingers through his hair and responding in a way he couldn't fail to interpret.

This was one dangerous man.

“I don't really want this.” She didn't mean to just say it like that.

“Me, neither.” His smile was rueful.

“If neither of us wants it, why are we doing this?”

His arms tightened. “Can't help it?” he suggested.

“Don't say that.” She pushed away from him and he let her go. She walked over to the edge of the vines and took a huge breath. “I don't
want
to fall in love with you.”

She could not believe she'd just used the word
love
.

Slater had obviously followed her, because when he spoke again, his breath was warm against the nape of her neck as he lifted her hair and kissed that sensitive spot, making her shiver. “Mace and I recently had a discussion on this topic. Our consensus was that some things are beyond our control.”

That could be true, she thought as she turned in his arms and rested her forehead against his chest, letting out an exasperated sigh. “It's too complicated.”

“You've got that right.”

“Stop laughing about it.” She smacked his shoulder with her fist, but she was laughing, too.

“You're cute when you're mad, which is a good thing.”

“Are you saying I'm ill-tempered?” She wished she had a
reason
to get mad. Now if he insulted her...

Predictably, he didn't cooperate.

“I'm saying the fire isn't all in your hair, Ms. Emery.” His eyes were amused as they met hers. “But you know what? I find that irresistible, although I haven't quite figured out why.”

“I haven't figured it out, either.”

“In other words, you find me irresistible, too.”

The man was way too full of himself. The worst part was that he was right. She contemplated smacking his shoulder again, but he homed in on that impulse and caught her wrist. His drawl was low and exaggerated. “No, you don't, sweetheart. Not unless you want me to retaliate like this.”

The kiss was devastating. A thrill spiraled in the pit of her stomach, and Grace came to the conclusion that he could retaliate like
this
all he wanted.

“The office,” he whispered against her mouth, holding her so close she could feel the tension in his body.

“What?” she asked, her heart racing. She had no idea what he was talking about.

“I think it's appropriate, since you and I have some
very
unfinished business.”

No permission asked, he simply picked her up and started walking toward the old bunkhouse, ignoring her mutter of protest at his assumption that he could just carry her off.

Did it matter that she probably would've said,
Yes, please do, and hurry
.

She wasn't sure, but the dramatic gesture worked for two reasons, one of them being the
hurry
part. Slater Carson seemed like a man on a mission. Soft leaves brushed her arms as they went past the neat rows of vines, and she should've demanded he set her down, since there was nothing wrong with her own two feet.

Maybe she'd always been more of a sucker for romance novels than she'd realized because she was so susceptible to the grand gesture. If it even was. She suspected he was just being efficient in that cowboy way, ready to go for what he wanted as quickly as possible.

Whether or not she agreed with that approach, she wasn't being given a chance to argue.

Not that she would have, anyway.

Instead, she slid her arm around his neck and kissed the patch of skin exposed by the open collar of his shirt, feeling rewarded when he groaned. He muttered, “If you think I need encouragement like that, you'd be dead wrong, sweetheart. Hang on, I might break into a run at any moment.”

* * *

O
N
A
SCALE
of one to ten, his level of desire for the woman in his arms was about a thousand.

Slater had to set her down so he could fumble with the handle to open the old bunkhouse door. He felt like a teenager, refusing to let her go completely. Since the very first time he'd laid eyes on Grace, he'd had this moment in the back of his mind.

On the negative side, he was fairly sure he was going to skip foreplay. On the positive end, it seemed she might be just fine with that scenario. He doubted she needed to be coaxed and tenderly urged to respond, but could match him easily when it came to passion. She was confident in an unassuming way, and he found that characteristic almost as tantalizing as her physical beauty.

The old bunkhouse had once been a playground for him and his brothers, a place to pretend they were old-style cowhands, riding the range, herding cattle...until they got old enough to actually herd cattle and discovered that it was damned hard work.

Still, he remembered with nostalgic fondness how the place used to look. His mother had done a great job of preserving its Old West charm and yet making it an inviting venue for people to sit and sample Mountain Vineyard wines. Small wooden tables and high stools were arranged around the room. Racks of different bottles stood behind the counter, decorative barrels were placed here and there and soft lighting complemented the whole effect. The wooden floor had been polished to a high sheen, and the walls were rough, but that was intentional. A painting she'd done herself, a view of the Tetons, hung on one wall. Blythe Carson had an artistic soul, no doubt about it.

Grace looked around approvingly when he flipped on the lights. “Our guests will love this.”

He appreciated her enthusiasm, but the only thing on his mind was that they were alone, and Mace's office had a very convenient daybed his brother used now and then when he worked a long day and decided to spend the night. He hovered over his precious vines as if they were his children, and any turn in the weather sent him into a tailspin.

Thank goodness, no frost in the forecast. He loved his brother despite his sometimes annoying sense of humor, but Mace was unwelcome at the moment. This was a party of two.

“Back here.” He urged Grace toward the office. It wasn't much more than a few filing cabinets, a desk with a computer, a big beautiful window and that simple daybed. Mace and Drake had a lot more in common than they'd care to admit. Nature, no frills, a single-minded focus on their jobs... Okay, maybe all
three
of them had more in common than they realized. He was like that, too.

Right now his goal was to have Grace's clothes on the floor by the plain Craftsman-style bed, his piled next to hers. He wanted her warm and naked against him, wanted to touch all that long, luscious vibrant hair and every other inch of her. And if she preferred to call the shots, Slater doubted she'd disappoint him.

“I see now,” she murmured as she caught sight of the bed. “Good idea. We really need to do this, you and I. Get it off the table—if you'll forgive the corporate cliché. Then we can figure out the rest of it.”

Maybe he could've thought of some clever reply but she started to unfasten her blouse.

One slow button at a time. She knew he was riveted, and
he
knew
she
wanted him, too, and he could swear there was no place on earth he'd rather be than this little vineyard office.

“I don't even need to see your body,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I've dreamt about it enough times, it's like a reel of film running in my head.”

That was filed under
Way Too Honest
. Grace unsnapped the front closure on her bra. “Then let's test the limits of your imagination.”

Her bra tumbled to the floor.

His imagination was good, he decided, but obviously not
that
good. It didn't nearly do her justice. Her breasts were full and firm, and his mouth went dry as her fingers moved to the top button on her jeans. The odd thing was that she was shy; he could sense it, and it didn't surprise him. She was unafraid, of course; she had no cause to be afraid of him—he'd never given her one and never would. And yet, despite her self-confidence, there was an uncertainty in her eyes that spoke volumes. If he had to guess, he'd say the problem had to do with her physical appearance, but not for the usual reasons. Any woman who looked like Grace would wonder if she was being pursued only because of her appearance.

Slater stepped toward her, meeting her eyes. “I'm not going to deny that I've got some serious lust going on. I think you saw that the night we met. But I want you to know that I think you're beautiful, and not just in this way—” he ran a finger lightly over the curve of one bared breast and then rested his palm between them, over her heart “—but here, too. You like to help people, not because it's your duty, but because you genuinely want to. That's rare and special. So are you.”

Her eyes were luminous but her voice was tart with admonishment. “I thought I made myself clear earlier, so don't do that to me, Carson. I was counting on you just wanting to get me naked.”

That was true; she'd stated with emphasis that she didn't want to fall in love with him. Well, too bad. If they were both on a sinking ship, it was every man—or woman—for himself. Or herself.

He said softly, “Take out the
just
and you've got it right.”

“Hmm, you're one smooth-talking cowboy who also happens to be wearing way too many clothes.” She tugged his shirt free of his jeans and tackled the buttons with vigor.

Their discussion was clearly over. He doubted he could put two words together, anyway, when she ran an exploratory hand over his bare chest. All the blood in his brain migrated south.

Slater touched her hair, marveling at its softness and silky texture. “I believe you mentioned naked?”

A heart-stopping moment later, he discovered that she wore some sort of wispy lace that was supposed to pass for underwear, and—not that he'd had any doubts—she was a true redhead. He shucked off his jeans and boots so fast he could probably win a prize and tumbled her to the bed. They fell together, and then he was exploring her body with purpose, learning every plane and curve, taking in each sigh and gasp, urgent but not in a hurry. This was something he wanted to remember with vivid clarity. Their first time together. He wasn't eighteen anymore, not by a long shot, but he felt the same sense of wonder he'd experienced back then. He'd have to sort that out later, much later, when Grace wasn't murmuring his name and touching him, testing the length of him with curious fingers in a way that took his self-control and dumped it right out the window.