To Love and Cherish (9 page)

He nodded. His forefinger traced the soft line of her mouth in a static silence. “Harder, little girl,” he said quietly. “Make me feel it.”

She blushed, but she obeyed him, liking the rough feel of the curling dark hair under her fingers, the solidness of the warm muscle.

He pressed one of her slender hands against the hard, heavy beat of his heart. “Feel what you do to me, Shelby,” he said huskily. “This is
what lovemaking is all about. Feeling. Sensation. It's nothing to be afraid of.”

“I know.” Her eyes closed as his mouth brushed lightly against her eyelids.

“You're trembling.” His body lifted for an instant while he got rid of the cigarette, then both his arms went under her, his hands at the back of her head, holding it steady under his dark, piercing gaze.

“Is it fear?” he asked in a rough voice. “Tell me!”

The urgency in his tone unsettled her, but the sensations she was feeling made it impossible for her to lie to him.

“No,” she whispered achingly. Her fingers lifted to his face, touching it gently, exploring. “Oh, no, King, it isn't fear….” she whispered.

His chest rose and fell heavily, erratically. “Show me.” His head bent,
his lips parting just before they touched hers. “Show me, honey,” he bit off against her soft, yielding mouth.

With a sob, she reached up and pressed her eager mouth against his, hungry for him, loving him. He answered that surge of passion with bruising urgency, as if all the control he possessed was suddenly and completely gone. She felt his teeth, his tongue, as he bent her to his will, his lean hands moving slowly, gently, on her soft, pliant young body. She stiffened instinctively for an instant and he drew back instantly, something in his dark, glittering eyes that she'd never seen before when he looked down into her flushed face.

“Do you want me to stop, Shelby?” he asked softly.

He was giving her a choice, and one she didn't want to make. Her eyes traced the lines of his face
slowly, lovingly, as she realized with a start that she didn't want to get away. There might never be another time like this, and she knew she'd never love any other man so much. But before she could speak, could tell him, there came the sound of a door opening suddenly, and the soft, sweet intimacy between them was shattered.

S
helby sat up as King got to his feet and turned, just in time to see the little blonde maid entering the room. She barely heard the brief conversation about breakfast her mind was spinning so badly. She drew the caftan close around her, like a shield, and sat quietly on the sofa until the door closed again. She was trembling all over with reaction, hating the in
terruption even as she was grateful for it. He'd humbled her again, and she'd let him. Would she never learn?

“Shelby…” he began quietly.

She straightened her shoulders and got up, the reason for her presence in this house coming back to her with staggering force.

“The funeral…” she murmured. “I've got to call Brad and see when he wants us to meet him at the funeral home.”

There was a long silence between them. She heard him sigh roughly. “I'll call him for you. Give me his number.”

She nodded and went to get it from her purse. His voice was as curt and controlled as ever.

 

The funeral was a nightmare of flashing camera bulbs, questions fired from all sides by newsmen and gossip columnists, and sobbing from Ma
ria's heartbroken public. Brad stayed on one side of Shelby, King on the other, all the way through the brief service in the funeral home chapel. It was filled to capacity, and television cameras were outside when the pallbearers carried the ornate coffin out to the hearse.

Just as Shelby was being put in the black limousine, a reporter bumped into King and jumped in front of him. “Excuse me, cowboy,” he said insolently, and rammed a microphone under Shelby's surprised nose. “Honey, they said Maria was pronounced dead on arrival at Hollywood General Hospital from an overdose—a deliberate overdose. Any truth in that?”

Shelby stared at the newsman blankly, still stunned by the sudden question. Her cheeks paled under the strain of the funeral, the frightening crush of people.

As she watched, the reporter seemed to grow taller. King had him by the collar and literally tossed him away. He glared at the newsman as if he were some new disease. “Make one move toward her again,” King said in a dangerous low tone, “and I'll have your job, sonny boy.”

The reporter stared at the taller man indignantly and started to fire back a retort when a pad-carrying reporter behind him quickly punched him. “That's King Brannt, you idiot!” came a loudly delivered whisper. “If you want to be standing in the unemployment line tomorrow, just keep on!”

The man with the microphone flushed darkly and moved away with a murmured apology.

King got Shelby in the car and slammed the door behind him, his eyes narrow on her white face.

“I should have decked him,” he
said under his breath. “Are you all right?”

She nodded gratefully. “We…we should have waited for Brad.”

“He's not coming to the graveside service,” King said quietly. He leaned back in the seat as the car pulled out into traffic, loosening his tie with an impatient hand. “God, I hate funerals. Especially funerals like this, with mobs of people having hysterics for the benefit of the cameras.”

Shelby bit her lip to keep the tears at bay. Her red eyes went to the window, and she watched the city streets, the routine of people coming and going, blankly.

King reached over and tugged at a lock of her thick hair. “I didn't mean what you're thinking,” he said gently. “I know you cared about your mother.”

A sob escaped her, along with a few stray tears. “I wish she'd cared,
just a little,” she whispered. “I seem to have been alone all my life.”

His jaw went taut, although she didn't see it. “Not now,” he reminded her. “You're not alone any more, Shelby.”

She felt his big hand clasp hers, and she linked her small fingers into his strong ones, feeling the rough coolness envelope them securely.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He squeezed her hand. “Where do you want to go afterwards? Want to grab a bite to eat or go straight to the airport?”

She looked up at him. “To the airport, please.”

He nodded. “We'll call Brad from there and let him wind up the details. Is there anything else you need to do?”

“No. Brad and I went to her lawyer's office this morning,” she reminded him. “A notice has to run in
the paper, but the lawyer will take care of that, and the sale of the house.”

“You aren't going to keep it?” he asked.

She shook her head. She hadn't told him that her mother had died practically penniless. It would be like making a plea for sympathy, and she didn't need any more of that. It was the last thing she wanted from King. Pity was a poor substitute for love.

“I'll take you riding when we get home,” he said suddenly. “You need to get your mind off it, and the sooner the better.”

“Why are you being so kind?” she asked gently.

He shrugged, looked uncomfortable, and turned his eyes toward the window. “You needed someone. I couldn't let Danny walk into this. He doesn't need a law practice, but he seems to think he can't live without
it. Getting himself embroiled in a scandal wouldn't endear him to those stiff-necked town lawyers he's associated with.”

“I knew you'd stop him,” she said with a quiet smile. “I hoped you would. I knew what it would do to his career.”

“I stopped him, all right. But he wouldn't have stopped me,” he added adamantly, pinning her with his narrow, dark eyes. “I'd have walked straight through hell to get to you.”

She met that look levelly, and felt the breath sighing out of her body at the intensity of it. She couldn't look away. It was as if his eyes were magnets, drawing hers, holding them, and she trembled at the undisguised passion she read in them.

“I want you,” he said forcefully.

She blushed furiously and looked
away. Her heart shuddered in her throat.

His fingers contracted around hers. “Don't panic. I'm not going to wrestle you down in the floorboard and attack you.”

The gentle levity brought a wan smile to her face. “I wish you wouldn't say things like that.”

“I know. That's why I do it.” He brought her hand to his lips. “We'll talk about it at the ranch. Feel better now?”

She nodded. The hearse pulled up in the small road ahead, and she recognized the sprawling, well-manicured cemetery where her mother's plot was located. The last hurdle, she thought ironically. Just this left to go through, and it would all be over. She could put it behind her and go on living. With resolution, her hand went to the door handle.

 

The elder Brannts welcomed her back with mingled joy and sympathy and immediately set out to involve her in the ranch. Although she tried not to make it obvious, Shelby stayed out of King's way as much as possible. She found excuses to go places with Kate, to spend time with the two elder Brannts in the evenings when King was working in the study. Danny called every night to talk to her, and she felt guilty about the length of time she kept him on the phone, but it was another way of keeping out of King's sight since she could stay in her room when she finished the conversation. She refused invitations to sit with King while he worked. She refused invitations to go riding with him. And day by day his temper grew quicker and hotter.

She knew he was angry, but she couldn't help it. He wanted her. He'd told her so, and what King Brannt
wanted, he got. She knew she could never say no to him if he asked, because she loved him too much. The only alternative was to keep him from asking, and she worked at it feverishly. By the end of the week she'd managed not to spend one single minute alone with him.

But Friday night upset all her plans. Jim and Kate announced that they were going out for the evening. Danny, who'd planned to come home for the weekend, called to say that Mary Kate was meeting him in San Antonio to take in a concert and he wouldn't be heading home until Saturday. And there Shelby sat, in the living room with King, who seemed to find more than enough to keep him at home.

“Scared, Shelby?” he taunted when the elder Brannts had gone out the door.

She swallowed hard. “Yes,” she admitted in a bare whisper.

His heavy brows shot together. “Why?”

Her face lifted bravely. “You know what you said.”

“Said? What did I say?” he demanded angrily. He thought for a moment and the scowl left his face. “That I wanted you?” he asked incredulously, his eyebrows lifting at her scarlet blush. He laughed shortly. “My God, what did you think I meant to do, drag you behind my desk some evening while I worked on the books?”

She gasped. “King!”

“Well, was it?” He slammed his half empty glass down on the desk, sending a drop of whiskey onto the glossy finish. “Damn it, you make me so mad I can't even think straight! Do you think I could enjoy making
love to you if I had to fight at the same time?”

Her cheeks went scarlet.

“Or is that what you're afraid of?” he asked narrowly. “That you wouldn't be able to fight me?”

She lowered her face, unable to deny it, her hands clutching each other numbly in her lap.

“Well, I'll be damned,” he said softly.

She heard him move, and the long, powerful legs came into view just in front of her.

He reached down and pulled her to her feet, holding her lightly by the waist. “Don't you know how dangerous it is to make that kind of admission to me?” he asked in a strange, deep tone.

She lifted her face, her big, dark eyes vulnerable as they met his searching gaze.

His hands tightened on her small
waist. He bent suddenly and brushed his parted lips against hers. She moved closer, her eyes half-closed looking straight into his as she went on tiptoe to return the strangely arousing kiss.

She felt his chest rise and fall erratically under her fingers. His hands contracted, hurting her, and she moaned.

He pushed her away and turned back to the small desk where his drink was sitting. “We'd better get out of here,” he said tightly. “Go put on something pretty and I'll take you to that new little restaurant downtown.”

“All right,” she said, breathless. She almost ran out of the room.

Despite Branntville's population, it was one of the most expensive restaurants Shelby had ever been in, with white linen tablecloths and a frighteningly expensive wine list.
King looked vaguely amused at her puzzled expression.

“Didn't you think we had classy restaurants, little girl?” he teased, eyeing her over the wine list.

She smiled shyly. “I didn't think about it at all, really,” she replied. He returned the smile, and this time there was no mockery in it. Her heart went wild in her chest.

“What kind of wine do you like?” he asked softly.

“Anything,” she murmured.

“No preference?” His eyes narrowed. “I'm not trying to get you drunk, Shelby.”

“I never thought you were,” she protested. Her big eyes pleaded with him. “King, can't we just enjoy the meal…”

His face relaxed. “Relax, honey,” he said, reaching for a cigarette. “I'm on edge tonight. I didn't mean to start on you.”

On edge? She couldn't picture King that way, and he seemed to read the disbelief on her face. He smiled.

“I'm human, honey,” he said quietly. “I get on edge just like anybody else when I've got something on my mind.”

“Can I help?” she asked without thinking.

“I don't really think you'd want to provide the kind of help I need right now,” he mused, and chuckled softly at the color that flamed in her cheeks. “How perceptive of you, Miss Kane, to guess exactly what I had in mind.”

“Oh, hush!” she said, embarrassed.

“You delightful little brat,” he said indulgently.

“I'm not a…” she protested softly.

“No,” he agreed, “you aren't.” His eyes traveled over her pale blue dress, lingering where it plunged in a V-neck. “You're all woman, and my
blood pressure jumps every time I look at you.”

She caught her breath. “King,” she whispered protestingly, looking around uncomfortably as if eyes were watching them. No one was.

“Look at me,” he said.

She met his searching gaze, and felt her pulse throbbing.

“What were you going to tell me that morning at your mother's, just before the maid interrupted us?” he asked deeply.

She looked down at the white tablecloth in the soft light of a red enclosed candle in the center of the table.

“Or were you going to say anything?” he persisted quietly. “We didn't need words, did we?”

“No,” she whispered unsteadily. “We didn't.”

He caught her hand across the table and his fingers caressed it lightly as
he held her eyes. “When we get home,” he said in a deep whisper, “I'll carry you into the living room and close the door. We'll start over.”