Reckless (13 page)

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Authors: Ruth Wind

BOOK: Reckless
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The slow, erotic, thudding notes of “Whipping Post” came on, and Jake groaned, pulling her closer yet. “I love this song.”
“Mmm.”
He let his hands rove over her body, sliding them up and down her sides in time to the music, skimming the outer curve of her breast, the plumpness of her hips, the channel of her spine. Quietly, he hummed along with the music, feeling part of it, part of her, part of the golden lateafternoon summer sunlight that warmed his lids.
Her nose brushed his throat, and Jake pressed his cheek to her hair. “You feel so nice,” he murmured as the song wound down.
The DO broke in, shattering the mood. Jake realized his thumbs were stroking the sides of her breasts, and her mouth was on his throat. She pulled away a little, lowering her head.
“Wow,” she said, and looked up. An earthy laugh rolled out of her, husky and sexy.
Jake cupped her chin and kissed her, sliding his tongue into her mouth in an urgent, heated demand. She met it breathlessly, then pulled away. “The food is going to burn.”
“Damn!” He jogged into the kitchen, smelling scorching cheese, and pulled out the metal sheet. “We're safe,” he reported. “Just in time.” With a towel, he retrieved the bread and put it on the counter next to the melted cheese.
Ramona came in behind him. “Good. I'm starving.” She leaned over the counter and grabbed her wine. The action made her breasts swell over the top of her shirt, giving him a lovely view of the creamy curves. Her hair was slightly tousled from the dance, and her cheeks were ruddy with color. She reached for a strawberry, swirled it through the cheese and popped it into her mouth.
Jake watched her, mesmerized by a kind of desire he'd never experienced in his life. He'd wanted women before. He'd even fancied himself in love once or twice, but never had he felt this need to make love so fiercely, not only in his hands and mouth and aroused organ, but also in his feet and knees and throat. He wanted to turn her to oil, so he could spread the essence of her all over him, turn her into food and eat her, make her smoke so he could inhale her.
She sucked softened Brie from her finger, seemingly oblivious to his condition. Then she lifted her eyes, those big brown eyes, and they were heavy lidded with desire and invitation, and be understood that her sweetness was only one side of her. She knew exactly what he was thinking.
Jake dipped his finger in the warm Brie and held it out to her. Without looking away from him, she swayed forward and took his hand to hold it steady, then took his finger in her mouth and sucked the cheese off.
His control snapped. With a growl, he grabbed her arms and stretched them above her head. “You're making me crazy,” he said, trapping her between his body and the wall. She made no protest, only lifted luminous eyes to him. Pressing his whole length against hers, he kissed her. Fiercely.
And she kissed him back, her mouth and tongue meeting his every thrust with a kind of wild eagerness. He released her arms and put his hands on her shoulders, sliding them down to touch her breasts, her waist, her hips, tugging her against him. “Damn, Ramona, I want you.”
Her hands pulled at him and roved over him, sliding open palmed over his buttocks, down the back of his thighs, upward again to his waist. She kissed him greedily, then pulled his shirt out from the back of his jeans, and, Jake felt the tingling brush of her fingers on his naked skin with a force like a hurricane.
Turning slightly, he lifted her to the counter and settled her there so he could reach her more easily. She didn't break the kiss, only settled on the counter and wrapped her legs around him. Her hands went to the buttons of his shirt, and Jake pressed his hips closer as he in turn unbuttoned her blouse.
Shoving the fabric away, he touched her breasts above her bra, nipping at her lips lightly as he did so. She moaned with pleasure, low in her throat, and her fingers dug into his shoulders as he spread his hands over the thin, silky bra. Her nipples nudged the heart of his palm, and he moved lightly, teasing them to harder points. And all the while, their tongues meshed and danced and swayed together, exploring, delving, drinking.
It seemed as if he'd been waiting to do this for an eternity, since that day of the wedding, and now he found himself almost mad with the need to touch her and hear those breathless, pleased sounds coming out of her as he stroked her aroused nipples through fine silky cups, and plunged his tongue deep into the heat of her mouth, and felt her tighten her thighs around him, pulling his arousal closer to the heated core of her.
Jake put his hands on her shoulders and lowered his head, kissing her throat, her collarbone, and finally closing his mouth around her nipple, nibbling a little through the fabric. She made a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan, and Jake did it again on the other side.
He rocked his hips against her, feeling her response, and finally he simply reached up and pushed her shirt and bra off her shoulders, trapping her arms at her sides. He couldn't catch his breath, looking at her luscious pink-and-cream breasts, firm and supple and oh, so ripe. He opened his mouth on her, feeling his breath come from him in ragged, hoarse gasps. The taste of the pebbled flesh against his tongue nearly sent him over the edge.
He lifted his head, dazed and awash on a wild current of need. He took her face in his hands and kissed her, mouth open. “You're wonderful... and real...and beautiful,” he whispered, kissing her between words. He tasted her lips and her chin, touched her breasts, then slid his hands lower.
She stared at him, her eyes wide and wanting and wary all at once. “I keep trying not to want you,” she said. “But it isn't working.”
“And I keep telling myself you deserve a lot more from me than what I've given you. I keep telling myself if I was any kind of honorable man, I'd just leave you the hell alone.” He drew a line down her face, over her lips and down her neck. He wanted to touch every inch of her, to kiss her and know her. He wanted to please her, satisfy her. “Touch me, Ramona,” he said in a raw voice. “I want to feel your hands on me, too.”
She swayed forward, that earthy, knowing smile on her face, and kissed his mouth, his chin, his throat. She traced a cross over his chest, throat to belly, then nipple to nipple. She moved without haste, and he loved the richly sensual slowness, the way she savored the act.
He closed his eyes with a groan, burying his hand in her thick hair. “I somehow knew you'd be like this, Ramona, so full of passion.”
Lingeringly, she pressed her lips to his chest. “It's you, Jake,” she murmured. Her hands moved surely to the top button of his jeans.
Jake found he could scarcely breathe for anticipation. In a haze, he looked at her, so pagan and beautiful and sexy, and knew it wasn't him at all. Like the herbs in her kitchen and the plants tumbling from every surface in the house, this was but another element of her lusty zest for living. For being.
In the background, the radio still played on, something quiet he didn't know, and it seemed perfect for this moment, for Ramona. For a heart-stopping moment, the strange sense that he might be falling in love wove through him, alien and exhilarating and terrifying.
And then all thought fled as she unbuttoned his jeans and slid her hand inside to close on his hardness. He gripped her shoulders as she caressed him, breathing encouragement, even as he tugged at the shirt that still clung to her. She resisted his efforts to take it off, and he closed his hand around hers. “Why?”
She only shook her head—but with a flash of insight, Jake thought he understood.
He deliberately put his hands on her belly. It was not slim. It was not flat. It was plump and soft and white, and he wanted to press his face into the comforting flesh. He lifted his head and caught her eye. “You're incredible,” he said, “and beautiful.”
And to his amazement, they were not just words to make her feel better. He'd never realized how soft a woman like this would feel. He'd never understood that the planes and angles of an elegantly thin woman would never cushion or comfort the way her body did. He kissed her deeply, gratefully, hungrily, and slid his hand down between her legs to caress her there, urgent need growing in him by the second.
Suddenly, a shrill electronic sound burst into the moist sound of their breathing and kissing and gasps. Jake, delirious with kissing her, did not immediately lift his head. Her tongue was a sin all its own, agile and daring, wanting more.
But the noise came again, and Ramona pushed him away. “My beeper!” she cried, looking wildly around for it. Shoving her hair from her face, she said, “Hand me my purse.” Reluctantly, Jake did. “I have to call,” she said seconds later, and Jake handed her the phone. Tugging her shirt around her, she slipped by him and reached to punch in the numbers.
Jake gave a quiet, disappointed curse and marginally readjusted his clothes. To distract himself, he lifted his glass and took a sip of wine, but even that could not compare with Ramona. He eyed her hungrily as she rang the number. From where he stood, a generous view of breast was visible at the opening of her shirt, and he knew he'd never again see her wear anything with buttons without imagining that sight.
“This is Dr. Hardy,” she said into the phone. “I was paged.” She listened, then, “How far apart are the pains?”
Jake's mood crumbled. Even he knew enough to realize a baby was on the way. With a groan, he struggled to refasten the buttons of his jeans, wondering if he'd lost his only chance to have her, or if she could be coaxed back.
As she spoke, he approached her, slid his hand into the opening of her shirt, then pushed her hair out of the way so he could kiss the back of her neck. She closed her eyes, but her voice was steady as she said to the person on the other end of the line, “I'll meet you at the clinic in ten minutes.”
She hung up and Jake groaned, burying his face against her neck. “Can't you call another doctor?”
“It doesn't work that way,” she offered reluctantly.
She ducked to elude him, but Jake caught her against him, clasping a naked breast in each hand as he pressed his mouth to her shoulder from behind her. “Don't go, Ramona. Please.”
For a second, she softened against him, sighing. Jake pressed his hips into the fullness of her bottom. She trembled slightly and surrendered as his hands moved restlessly, urgently, on her body, his teeth against her shoulder. Fiercely, he sucked at a tender place at the base of her throat, and she groaned, her hands gripping his thighs behind her.
“Jake,” she whispered, “I have to—”
He opened his mouth and wildly planted kisses to her ear, to her neck. “No,” he growled, and turned her gently in his arms. He picked her up and put her against him, holding her bottom until she wrapped her legs and arms around him. The position was exactly right for the marriage of his mouth and her breasts. She gripped him in a swoon of shuddering passion, straining against him for a long, delectable minute. Jake felt mad with want of her.
But she pushed him away again. “Jake, stop. I have to go. I don't want to any more than you do, but this woman is counting on me.” She put her feet down and pushed away gently. “You have to let me go.”
A dark emotion rushed through the blur of his desire. He dropped his arms. “Fine. Go.”
Silently, she dressed. “Jake, this is part of my life. You have to understand that.”
He closed his eyes, recognizing the emotion roiling inside him as jealousy. “I do,” he said. “I'm sorry.”
Her smile was lightning bright, and she sailed across the small space between them to press a fervent kiss against his mouth. “Good. I'll see you soon.”
Then she was gone. and the room was suddenly too quiet. Jake sank down into a chair, feeling deserted, and horny and very depressed.
Chapter 13
T
he baby came fast and without much trouble, but when Ramona was finished, she did not return to Jake's condo. It had been in her mind to do so when she left him, but after a few hours of cooling off, she decided it would be unwise.
In her own bed, with a cat purring and warm on her tummy, Ramona stared into the darkness and replayed the evening with Jake. She wanted him, heaven knew. He aroused in her a passion she had never experienced, never even really believed existed.
Miraculously, he wanted her, too. But alone and clearheaded now, without the narcotic presence of the man himself to distract her, Ramona wondered about his motivation. Why was he drawn to her in particular?
And the only answer she could come up with was that he needed healing. She didn't think he knew that, didn't think he even had the faintest idea of what impelled him, but Ramona could taste his need when he kissed her. He was almost—driven. She really wasn't the sort of woman to inspire that kind of blinding passion in a man.
Traitorously, she liked it. She liked the sense of power it gave, the flush of feminine exhilaration it made her feel.
More, she loved the way she felt when he touched her. As if every cell in her body were filled with a moist, honeyed light. A single finger dragged along the inside of her elbow, the brush of his lips over her tummy, the whisper of his hair brushing her chin and neck and breasts—alt of it made her feel hungry and alive. In Jake's arms, privy to his skilled and ardent caresses, Ramona had become someone new.
She liked touching him. He was sexy and responsive and sensual. She liked the sounds he made—low growls, slow, throaty sighs and murmurings of fervent longing.
Restlessly, she turned to her side, aware of a heaviness in her groin, a weighty need in her breasts and lips and palms. She wanted to throw on whatever she could find, jump in her car and roar over to his condo to take up where they'd left off. Even the thought made her ache with desire.
Why had she come home instead?
Because, quite simply, tonight Ramona had realized that she was falling in love with him. And he was wounded, and he wanted her for reasons he didn't understand, and once he healed, he would take up the life he'd deserted. A life in which a simple country doctor had no place.
When it came right down to it, Ramona didn't think she could bear having him, then losing him. Far better to avoid the temptation and save her heart. Whatever the clichés said, she didn't believe it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. She didn't want that kind of sorrow in her life.
Which didn't mean she was afraid of risks, or afraid of love. She wasn't. But foolish risks, risks that were almost certain to hurt her, those were better left unexplored. She wouldn't jump out of a plane without a parachute, she wouldn't ride a motorcycle without a helmet and she wouldn't sleep with Jake.
Wincing, she knew he wasn't going to take kindly to the news. He'd be annoyed. He was a man who was used to getting his way, and if for no other reason, he'd be all the more set upon getting her into his bed for whatever amount of time she held his interest. Ramona would have to prepare herself for that. She wouldn't bother to be reasonable or calm. She'd give him a simple, clear explanation—and leave him to his irritation.
And as much as it pained her, she would have to avoid him after that. Since Dr. Richards had taken his case, it shouldn't be hard.
She ignored the pang of regret she felt. These past few weeks had been very pleasant. Already she would miss him.
 
But Ramona didn't have a chance to tell Jake anything. The official Fourth of July weekend would start Friday, two days away, and the usual crowd of campers and tourists were flooding into town. It was worse than usual, since the Fourth fell on a Monday, making it a three-day weekend.
The morning after she delivered the baby, she had her first two cases of a summer flu that had nasty respiratory manifestations. By the next day, she decided most of the townspeople had come down with the virus, along with a good percentage of the tourists. The small clinic was soon bulging with victims, including two asthma cases and four elderly patients whose flu shots hadn't protected them against the mutated strain and they'd developed pneumonia. A hoard of preschoolers who had picked it up at day care, among them Curtis and Cody, Jake's nephews, were afflicted, as was Tyler. She dispensed medications and cough syrup and nasal sprays and inhalers in numbers that made two pharmacists call her in alarm.
To make matters worse, the usual Fourth of July bums started appearing. Fireworks were strictly outlawed in Red Creek except for the carefully controlled display given in the town square every year, but the law never stopped anyone. The townsfolk were as stubborn and independent as Westerners came, and by hook or by crook, they'd have their fireworks. They could drive into Denver for mild sorts of sparklers and snakes and smoke bombs, or drive another hour and a half across the Wyoming border to buy anything they wanted—including Roman candles, bottle rockets, and a whole menu of shooting stars.
And with fireworks came burns.
The teenage boys were the worst. They lit bottle rockets in their hands or pointed Roman candles at each other. One boy, involved in just such an incident, had come very close to losing his eye. Instead, the fiery ball had skimmed his temple and seared away the hair in a line above his ear. Treating him, Ramona commented, “You're lucky your hair didn't catch fire. I'd hate to see a boy your age bald.”
He blanched.
Twice Jake called her house and left messages on her machine, but by the time she got home at night, it was too late to call him back, and she was too exhausted anyway. He appeared once at the clinic, but Ramona didn't even get a chance to talk to him. Every time she headed in his direction, someone else rushed toward her with something urgent she needed to address that very minute. Finally, giving up, she waved and gave him a rueful smile, and he seemed to take it in good grace, giving her a smile as he waved farewell.
By Saturday, the patient load was down a little, but Dr. Richards called from the VA home to tell her that some flu cases had begun to appear there. Ramona swore under her breath. It was a nasty enough virus among the young and healthy—but it devastated the elderly. She told him she'd get over there as soon as she could.
She didn't make it until evening, and by then, the past few days had begun to take their toll. Dr. Richards, dressed in green scrubs, took one look at her and shook his head. “You're too old to play intern, Ramona. How much sleep have you had?”
Wearily, she rubbed her forehead. “Precious little. This flu seems like it's about to run its course, however, and once we get through the weekend, most of the tourists will go home, and maybe most of the bums will stop, too.” In reality, the truth was that she had not slept more than three hours at a stretch since Tuesday, and she wasn't twenty-four anymore. She felt the exhaustion in her shoulders, at the back of her neck and in her grainy eyes.
“Take tomorrow off,” Dr. Richards said. “I'll cover for you.”
Ramona frowned, shaking her head. “I appreciate the offer, but you have plenty going on here yourself.” She took a chart from the hanging files along the wall. “How is Mr. Redfeather?”
“No, you don't,” he said, and plucked the chart out of her hands. “You can't treat patients when you can't even see straight. The VA is sending a couple of residents up to help, and we can cover you.”
Ramona knew he was right. “Let's make a deal.” She grabbed the chart back. “Let me look in on my patients tonight, and I'll take off until morning.”
“No deal. You take off till Monday morning and I'll let you go visit the old codgers.”
“Monday!”
“Come on, woman. You're young and healthy and you need to do more than work. Get some sleep, then head over to the picnic and watch some fireworks.” He smiled. “Doctor's orders.”
She pursed her lips. The truth was, she was exhausted and fed up with the crisis. If she took a day off, her humor would surely be restored. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“And you'll call me if you need me?”
He held up three fingers. “Scout's honor.”
“Then we have a deal.” She took out another chart to add to the pile, then as casually as she could, asked, “How is Jake Forrest doing?”
A flicker of a smile crossed Dr. Richards's face. “Well, there's no question he's got a classic case of PTSD, but along with that goes the classic resistance. I haven't had any luck getting him to talk to a counselor or go to a group.”
Ramona shook her head. “Too bad.”
“You know, just out of curiosity, why did you refer him? You're one of the best with cases like this.”
She lifted a shoulder, carefully training her gaze on the charts. “I was becoming personally involved.” She took a steadying breath. “I also thought he might respond better to a man and a soldier, instead of...” She paused. “How did he put it? ‘What can a woman know about any of it?' Or words to that effect.”
“Ah. Macho man.”
Once, Ramona would have agreed with him, but now she wasn't sure the label fitted. Still, maybe she shouldn't be the one to judge. “Something like that.”
He moved toward the door. “Do your rounds, then I want you to go home and sleep. Got it?”
“Yes, sir!” Ramona saluted smartly, drawing from him the chuckle she'd hoped she would.
 
Jake hurried down to the sun-room, his stash for Harry hidden in his coat. A light rain was falling outside, making the room seem even gloomier. It was empty.
Frowning, Jake went to Harry's room. The old man lay in bed, covered by heavy blankets. His complexion was waxy and his hair hadn't been washed. “Hey, old man,” Jake greeted, pulling up a chair. “What did you do? Go and get sick on me?”
Harry gave a raspy cough. “What the hell happened to you? Were you brawlin', boy?”
Jake winced. Harry had been a cop after his years in the service, and he wouldn't take kindly to this story. “I had a little accident in my car.”
“Little?”
“Well...” Jake cleared his throat. “I totaled it.”
“Damn, boy. You haven't got the sense God gave a monkey. Didn't I tell you sports cars are bad news?”
“You did, Harry. I didn't listen.”
The old man looked disgusted. “Crank me up so I can sit straight. This bed is driving me crazy.”
Jake complied. “I brought your stuff. Sorry I haven't been here, but it's been hard to get a ride.”
“I told you before not to worry about it when you can't come. I get along all right.”
“I know,” Jake said. “You want me to stash everything in your closet?”
Harry looked at the door. “The cigarettes you can put in my coat pocket there. Close the door and give me the ale. I'll hide it under the covers.”
Jake grinned. “You got it.” From beneath his jacket, he took the single bottle of ale, and walking across the room, he hid the cigarettes and closed the door. On the way back, he noticed the other bed in the room was empty. “Where's your roomie?”
Harry sipped his ale and sighed deeply. “Damn, that's good. One of life's finer things.” He settled back, the bottle hidden under the covers. “George died last night. Cold as ice when they tried to wake him up this morning.”
“I'm sorry.”
Harry. shot him a glare through rheumy eyes. “Man couldn't speak, and every minute he was awake, he was in pain. Death was a blessing, boy.”
Jake lowered his head. Obviously, Harry was put out with him, no matter what he said. “Well, how are you feeling? Did you catch this flu?”
“That's what they said.”
In the corner, the television news played a clip of tanks moving in the mountains somewhere, maybe Bosnia or Croatia. Jake felt a sharp, stabbing pain and looked away.
“You sleeping any better?” Harry asked.
“Sometimes.” Jake folded his hands. “Ramona brought me a cat. She said it might help.”
Harry chuckled. “Now there's a woman. Pretty little thing, and plenty of meat on her bones. I like a woman like that.”
A vision of her naked breasts and round tummy flashed in Jake's mind, and he sighed. “Yeah. Me, too. Too bad she's so damned busy all the time.”
“She still your doctor?”
“No. I'm with Dr. Richards.”
“Yeah? Why?”
Jake shrugged, but he thought he knew. “I yelled at her one night. Told her she didn't have a clue what was bothering me. I mean, really—” he spread his hands “—what can a woman like her know about all this? She's the most protected, cheerful little thing I ever met.”

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