Western Man (12 page)

It was a simple question, but the way her mind was working, she read something much more suggestive into it. And she suspected that Ridge had counted on that. Distance from those taunting blue eyes seemed preferable. Also, Sharon didn’t think she’d find anything very sexy about his feet, so she opted for them as a beginning.

“The bottom.”

Striving to keep that air of clinical detachment, she tossed aside the bedcovers to expose the lower half of his body and draped one of the bath towels across his hips. She could sense the laughter in his glance at that action, but she steadfastly kept her attention on what she was doing. She shook out the second towel and lifted the leg farthest from her, sliding the towel under it so the bedding wouldn’t get wet.

When she turned to the basin to wet the washcloth and soap it up, she was conscious of Ridge’s glinting look. Silently he lay there, giving every indication that he was enjoying all this immensely —at her expense.

The knowledge fed an inner irritation. Sharon was a bit more vigorous than was entirely necessary when she began scrubbing his leg and foot. His soap-slicked skin made her more aware of the rope-hard muscles in his calf and thigh. She concentrated on his foot.

“Be sure to get between my toes,” Ridge instructed and wiggled them slightly to draw her attention to them.

After an instant’s hesitation, Sharon complied. Her lips were clamped shut against the building tension inside.
He’s just a little boy,
she kept telling herself, adding, —
with big feet.

“When my mother gave me a bath, she always played ‘This little pig went to market’ with my
toes.”
The thickness of dry amusement was in his voice.

His reference to himself as a small boy completely
destroyed her pretense. By no stretch of the imagination could she kid herself into believing any longer that this wasn’t a man’s leg she was washing.

“This is ridiculous,” Sharon muttered under her breath and wetted the cloth again so she could rinse the soap from his leg.

“Is something wrong?” Ridge asked in false innocence.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Her answer was terse, with none of its implied amusement, as she rinsed the soap from his leg and dried it.

“I thought I heard you mutter something,” he persisted dryly.

“Well, you must have been hearing things.” She shifted the towel under his other leg and began washing it with an air of determined indifference to mask her heightened sensitivity.

She was conscious of his watching eyes and calmly folded arms. It increased her awareness of the amount of bare flesh exposed to her sight. Sharon wished she could pretend Ridge was a stranger. Maybe then she wouldn’t be wondering what was going through his mind.

It was worse when she rubbed the washcloth over the top of his thigh and the smoothly muscled flank. Her heart racketed against her rib cage in disturbed reaction.

“I guess you don’t want to play ‘Piggy went to market,’” Ridge concluded when she had finished scrubbing his foot and moved back up his leg.

“No, I’m not going to play ‘Piggy went to market.’” She stepped to the basin and rinsed out
the washcloth. “But if a rubber ducky will keep you quiet, I’ll see if I can find one.”

He tipped his head back to look at her. “Am I bothering you?”

“Do birds fly?” Sharon retorted and briskly wiped the soap from his leg to dry it.

Ridge waited to reply, timing it for the moment when she began washing his outstretched arm. “What made you think about birds?”

Her hand paused along his flexed bicep as Sharon darted a glance at the lazy and inquiring expression on his face. In her mind there was an immediate word association of “birds” with “bees.” It was hardly surprising. Since she was engaged in the intimate act of washing him, how could she not be aware of his sex—and her own? She began to feel very warm, and a growing agitation within started to affect the natural rhythm of her breathing.

“I really couldn’t say why I did.” Sharon attempted an indifferent shrug but answered truthfully.

To wash his other arm, she had to lean partially across him. The focus of his attention was on the nearness of her face rather than on what she was doing. As he lazily inspected her, he observed every nuance of her expression, adding to the havoc he was already creating in her senses. Her pulse was behaving erratically—slowing down, skipping beats, then taking off again.

“Having someone bathe you is a very enjoyable experience,” Ridge commented idly.

“I’m glad someone’s enjoying this.” It was a low retort, close to being muttered. Sharon rubbed the soapy washcloth over the muscled ridges of his shoulders, under his throat, and across the top of his chest, taking care not to get the elastic bandage around his ribs wet.

“Aren’t you?” A smiling knowledge lurked behind the blue surface of his eyes.

“I’m having a ball,” she mocked. Rinsing out the washcloth, she went over the same territory again.

“I thought so,” he murmured.

Sharon nearly blushed because it was true, despite all this self-consciousness. She was enjoying this excuse to touch nearly every part of him, not once but a total of at least three times, when she counted washing, rinsing, and drying. Through with the washcloth, she dropped it into the basin and picked up the towel to pat dry his damp skin.

“When I get up and around—” Ridge had to lift his chin high to avoid the bulky towel when she dried his throat and chest “—remind me to return the favor and give you a bath.”

Sharon faltered but recovered quickly and straightened, all brisk and efficient. “I think I’d rather manage by myself.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” he warned.

“I guess that’s my loss,” she countered and dipped her hand into the basin for the washcloth again. “Do you want to wash your own face, or shall I do it for you?”

During a small hesitation, Ridge seemed to measure the glint in her hazel eyes. “I think I’d better do it myself,” he decided. “You look like you might want to push that washcloth down my throat.”

“Me?” Sharon returned innocently. “The thought never entered my mind.” But she had been thinking about the hard contours of his face beneath her fingers, so it was just as well that he did the job himself. She soaped up the washcloth and handed it to him, then put the towel within easy reach. “I’ll bring your razor and comb from the bathroom while you finish up.” When she reached the doorway to the bathroom, she paused and turned to look over her shoulder. “Don’t forget to wash behind your ears.”

There was a sound of amusement, close to a laugh that didn’t get finished, checked by painful rib and stomach muscles that wouldn’t permit it without severe protest. Sharon swung on into the bathroom to collect the items.

Ridge had finished when she came back and crossed to the bed. Before she handed him the electric razor, she reached behind the bedstand and plugged the cord into the outlet, then passed the razor to him.

“Do you need a mirror?” she asked. “Or can you shave just by feel?”

“I can get by without a mirror,” he said, rubbing a hand over the stubble on his jaw.

The hum of the razor filled the room as Sharon
gathered up the damp towels and the washbasin and carried them back to the bathroom. By the time she had hung the towels and washcloth up to dry, rinsed out the basin, put it away, and returned to the bedroom, Ridge had shaved and combed his mahogany dark hair.

“How do I look?” he queried.

As long as she ignored the bandaged ribs and bruised stomach, he looked vitally fresh, able to take on anything or anyone and win. But Sharon kept that opinion to herself.

“You look fine,” she said and gathered the razor and comb from the table. “I’ll just put these things away.”

“You can bring me some clothes, too,” Ridge instructed as she headed for the bathroom again.

“You don’t need any,” she retorted as she set the items on the bathroom sink counter and came back out. When she saw the argumentative look in his face, she reminded him of his promise. “You’re going to stay in bed and rest, remember? Since you’re spending the day in bed, there’s no need to get dressed.”

Grim and restless, he swung his gaze away from Sharon, flashing it around the room, then slicing it back to her as she approached the bed to reposition the sliding pillows supporting him.

“Dammit, I’ll go crazy in here with nothing to do,” he protested.

“You can listen to the radio and I’ll bring some stock magazines for you to read.” She punched the
pillow into place behind him and straightened to leave.

“Where are you going?” His calloused fingers made a rough band around her wrist to detain her.

The warmth and strength of his hand seemed to flow into her veins. Sharon tried to react calmly to his hold, so that her pulse wouldn’t leap against his thumb.

“I still haven’t made my bed or straightened the house,” she said. “And I need to find something to fix for your lunch.”

“Stay here and keep me company,” Ridge urged with a persuasive gleam in his lazy blue eyes.

When he was in this sexily cajoling mood, his male charm could be a potent thing. She felt its caressing tug on her emotions and shook her head in wary resistance.

“I’m here to take care of you, Ridge, not to keep you entertained,” she countered smoothly, but his grip only tightened when she tried to pull her hand away.

The glint in his eye became more challenging and seductive, a kind of dare in its mocking depths. “I promised to stay in bed and rest, but only if you promised to stay with me.” The pressure of his grip pulled her closer to the bed until she was awkwardly unbalanced, with her knees butting against the mattress while she leaned over it.

“You did no such thing,” Sharon protested and tried to brace herself to keep from being pulled further by stretching her free hand on the mattress.

Ridge caught it, too, and held both wrists captive. It was too soon after bathing him to be this close. She’d barely had time to calm her hotly disturbed senses. Now the fresh scent of soap clinging to his bare skin was igniting them all over again.

“Sleeping alone is one thing,” Ridge drawled. “But I’m not used to lying alone in a bed during the daytime. It isn’t natural.”

Needing leverage to combat the steady pull of his hands, Sharon put a knee on the mattress, but that left her with only one foot on the floor to act as an anchor. Before she could set herself to tug against his pulling hands, Ridge was dragging her across him.

“Be careful,” she gasped, suddenly more worried about falling on his injured middle than she was about being hauled into the bed. “You’re going to get hurt again.”

“Not if you pay attention,” he taunted and helped her climb over him to the wider side of the bed.

As soon as she was clear of him, she tumbled in an ungainly sprawl onto the mattress beside him. For several seconds, she lay there, vaguely irritated because she knew she hadn’t struggled very hard to avoid this. It was no use pretending that she hadn’t fought harder because she was afraid of hurting him. That was just a handy excuse.

The mattress moved under his shifting weight. Sharon turned her head to look at him warily, one
wrist still shackled by his encircling grip. He had slid off the pillows and was now stretched alongside her, half turned, with his dark head supported by a bent arm. The glinting caress of his mocking blue eyes tightened her stomach.

“This is ridiculous.” Her protest was hardly more than a husky murmur. “I have work to do.”

“You’re here at Latigo to take care of me, not to make beds or clean house.” Ridge let go of her wrist, but she wasn’t free of his touch as his hand moved to the side of her neck. His fingers were gentle and caressing while his thumb lightly stroked the curve of her throat. “Taking care of me is a full-time job.”

A sweet tightness of tormenting misery welled in her throat at his comment, choking off her voice. It was a full-time job she wanted desperately—all over again. She hadn’t learned a thing. Her adolescent crush had grown into love. It wasn’t that Ridge had the power to disturb her so completely. It was the love she felt for him that gave him that power.

From experience, Sharon knew that Ridge didn’t love women. He made love to them, but there was never any emotional commitment behind it. Knowing that, she had to guard against ruining her life over him a second time.

Bending his head he nuzzled her lips, reveling in their softness before settling firmly onto them. The slow and heady kiss dragged a response from inside her. She returned the slow, sensual movement of his mouth against hers. The sweet intensity of her
pleasure bordered on pain, but she managed to suppress most of her longing.

Momentarily satisfied with the response to his first intimate foray, Ridge drew back to study her through half-closed eyes. Sharon tried to show no reaction as his fingertips explored her features, spending a lot of time around her mouth.

“Ridge, you’re going to hurt yourself.” Sharon attempted to reason with him. “You’re supposed to rest and take it easy.”

His mouth came back to make another claim on her lips, while her pulse skyrocketed at his seductive insinuation. Her hands moved tentatively to the top of his chest and the hard bones of his shoulder. Their contact with his flesh was limited by his injuries, as Sharon subconsciously avoided aggravating his soreness. His strongly stimulating kiss was skillfully drawing out her responsiveness, not letting her contain it.

The roaming caress of his hand had moved down to the back of her hip, gently applying pressure to urge her closer. In absent compliance, Sharon shifted nearer until she came up against the barrier of his long legs. She became conscious of a new assault as the solid outline of his muscular thighs became imprinted on her legs and the heat of his body burned through her clothes.

As his mouth followed a slow, wandering trail across her cheek to her ear, her self-control became undermined by the eroding force of her desire. His warm breath was a sexual stimulus to the sensitive opening of her ear, sending excited
quivers over her skin. Sharon sunk her teeth into the soft inside of her lower lip, biting back the moan that rose in her throat.