Cara Colter - A Hasty Wedding p.02

Seven

"Holy, Holly," her best friend Jennifer O'Riley said, pushing through the crowded barn and swirling people, "I hardly recognized you."

"Oh for heaven's sake," Holly said, irritated. "I took off my glasses."

Jennifer, a beauty with flaming red hair and slanting green eyes, was looking at her less glamorous friend closely. "No, it's more than that."

"Okay," Holly offered grudgingly. "I put on a bit of makeup and did something a little different with my hair."

Jennifer was still looking at her intently, trying to solve some mystery.

"All right. I bought a new outfit!" Holly admitted.

"It's something else," Jennifer decided. "There's a certain glow about you. You look like a woman—"

Thankfully, Steve Darce, the new young bank manager was back asking Holly if she wanted to dance with him again. Because it gave Jenn no opportunity to finish what she was going to say, Holly said yes.

As if Holly didn't know exactly what Jenn planned to say. She had never been able to keep anything from her best friend. Jenn had seen the secret in her eyes.

She had seen it herself when she had looked in the mirror tonight. A certain light in her face that no makeup could give. A dreamy, faraway look in her eyes that had nothing to do with lashes so thick with mascara it felt like she was dripping soot.

Holly Lamb looked like a woman in love. And that, as much as the makeup and the outfit, was what was attracting all this attention.

Embarrassing attention. But a bit heady, too.

There was only one problem.

She looked over at Blake. He had not moved from the bar all night, though the bevy of beautiful women came and went. She recognized many of them. They dropped by the office, casually, as if they were just passing by. Since the Hopechest was ten miles from the nearest anything, it was pretty hard to just be in the neighborhood.

Torey Canfield, stewardess and part-time model. Rosemary Hansen, divorced, rich, gorgeous. Kaye McMurphy, counted on to make that stunning first impression when people first walked through the impressive glass-and-steel front doors of Springer. They fluttered around him, gorgeous perfect women, younger versions of her mother. There was one in particular tonight, Holly didn't know her name. Her hair was a cloud of gold around her head, and she had ignored the fact it was a barn dance and was dressed in a sequined form-fitting black sheath with a scoop neck. Even from a distance it was obvious. No underwear.

And even though she looked good tonight, Holly had no illusions. She would never look like that. She knew part of what made her so attractive tonight to all these men, young and old, was that she looked attainable. The nice, pleasant wholesome girl next door.

Not at all like the sophisticated woman in black who clung to the seat next to Blake.

Thoroughbred to her workhorse.

And Blake was a thoroughbred, too. Even the expression on his face—remote, glowering—seemed to add to his handsomeness not detract from it.

She recalled hearing that once. That a workhorse and a thoroughbred could not share the same harness.

And that probably said all that needed to be said about her and her boss. They were not in the same league. He had not noticed her when she had dressed out of the secretary's handbook, and he had not seemed to notice her duckling-to-swan metamorphosis tonight. He simply was not going to like her in the way she wanted to be liked by him, no matter what she did.

Not one comment on her appearance, the changes she had made.

Not one invitation to dance. No, it didn't take the sting out of it that he had not danced with anyone else either.

No, it didn't take the sting out of it when his friend Rory Sinclair went by with Peggy Honeywell and said to Holly in an undertone, "He never dances. Not even in college."

All that had done was make Holly feel ridiculously transparent, as if everyone in the whole world knew her secret and could see she was pining away for a man who did not see her the way she wanted to be seen.

It seemed to her romance was in the air tonight. In defiance of the tragedy that had ruled all their lives over the past few months, love grew, sweet and strong.

Rory Sinclair and Peggy Honeywell. Michael Longstreet and his wife, Suzanne. Now Rafe and Libby.

They were all here tonight, and Holly found herself resenting their obvious happiness. How easy it was, when she looked at these couples, to see how well suited they were, how they looked like they belonged together.

And little plain-Jane Holly Lamb was never going to look like that with her drop-dead gorgeous boss. Never.

"Hey," her dance partner, Steve Darce, said, "don't look sad. You'll give me a complex."

She forced herself to smile, and said lightly, "Well, that wouldn't do."

"I'd like to get to know you better. Where I don't have to yell over music. I heard there's a new restaurant open. The Red Herring. It's supposed to be pretty good. Do you want to check it out for dinner sometime?"

She kept her smile pasted on. "Let me think about it." Why? Why think about it? She needed to get on with her life, quit wishing for things that weren't going to happen.

Steve was a nice guy. All right, he didn't have Blake's commanding presence. Or Blake's penetrating gray eyes. Or Blake's beautiful silky full hair. He also didn't have a dozen gorgeous women hovering around him all night.

He had nice plain, clean-cut features, thinning reddish hair, an earnest way and a good sense of humor.

Why not go to the Red Herring with him?

It would be too pathetic if she just spent her whole life waiting for the thing that was never going to happen.

"Sure," she said. "Let's go for dinner."

He beamed at her. "I'll pick you up tomorrow night around six."

She wanted to protest that was much too soon. Two nights out in a row? But she knew wanting to put off her date with Steve was just part of keeping an unreasonable hope alive.

"That would be fine," she said. The dance ended, and suddenly Jenn was beside her.

"Last dance," Jenn hissed in her ear. "For God's sake, go ask him."

"Who?" Holly said primly.

Jenn rolled her eyes. "Go. For once in your life do something daring."

Holly thought that was particularly unfair. She had been daring. Couldn't Jenn see that? The hair, the makeup, the clothes. It had all felt pretty daring, until she had seen that number in the black sequins. Now she felt like little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes.

But maybe Jenn was right. She had to take one more chance. She had to roll all the dice before she tossed in the towel for good.

Aching with trepidation, she crossed the dance floor. Just as she pushed through the throng milling around the bar, she saw the woman in black pulling at his arm, obviously making the very same request she had come to make. She turned away.

"Holly!"

She turned back. Blake was coming toward her, the woman in black perching on her seat with a pout that turned menacing when she saw Holly.

"Would you dance with me?"

Her mouth fell open. She blinked. She glanced at the woman in black and back at him. She had been chosen over that? Maybe miracles did happen.

"I don't dance very well," he said leaning toward her, "or very often. But I did bring you."

Oh. Nice of him to notice. The obligatory dance. Still, she could not refuse.

She allowed him to take her elbow and guide her onto the crowded dance floor. The music began. Fate having a snicker at her. One of her favorite songs of all time, so sweetly romantic, so full of hope and promise.

As the song's opening bars played, his one hand took hers, the other nestled in the hollow of her hip.

When

all else has failed me,

When

I'm weary and torn,

Love

whispers to me,

And

my spirit is reborn.

Holly closed her eyes and let the soaring vocals of Annie Adams pick her up, soothe her. The scent of him filled her senses, his hand in hers made anything seem possible.

Oh,

I've walked alone

All

the days of my life,

But

love promises me

An

end to heartache and strife.

He was a terrible dancer, and it didn't matter to her one little bit. But then, as if he confessed that to himself, he gave up the pretense of dancing. His hand moved to the small of her back and he tugged her gently into the wall of his chest, and swayed against her.

Like

the sailor who comes home from the sea,

The

warrior home from the dying;

Bring

your broken wings to me.

Love

mends those hearts that are crying.

Holly had known that this place existed somewhere on this earth for her. She had always known. That one day she would feel this. Safe. Protected. Cherished. Loved.

She was ridiculous to feel those things.

It was only a dance. Yet, she could feel the simple strength in him, in his hand against her back, in the heart that beat so steadily under the soft caress of her cheek against his chest.

Her bones were melting. If she had no other moment, it felt like this one would be enough to sustain her all the days of her life, to fix her broken wings and mend her heart, to make anything that was wrong with her world right.

The music stopped, and yet still he held her to him. And when she dared look up into his face, he was looking down at her with faint puzzlement, as if he had never seen her before, as if he had never felt what he had just felt.

As though he only suddenly realized the music had stopped, he stepped away from her. His hands remained at her hips for a precious moment longer, before he let them drop to his sides, then looked away from her and ran a hand through his hair.

"Shall we go?" he said.

She nodded, and looped her arm through the arm he offered her, but she knew, with a sinking feeling, that her moment was over.

But Jenn didn't seem to think so. She was grinning wickedly. "I'll call you tomorrow."

Jenn assumed Holly knew what to do next. When she didn't. Should she suggest they go for a drink? Did she invite him in? Did she kiss him if he came in?

The thought of kissing him actually made her feel weak with wanting.

"You seemed to have a good time tonight," he said in the vehicle.

"It was fun," she said.

"After all you've done at Hopechest you deserved a fun night."

She glanced at him quickly, because that didn't seem to be said with the least bit of sincerity. He actually seemed very remote, as if she had annoyed him by having fun.

"You didn't seem to enjoy yourself."

He shrugged. "Two left feet."

"Not that I noticed," she said softly.

All too soon, before she had a chance to work up her nerve to ask him if he wanted to go somewhere for a drink, he had pulled the ranch vehicle into its parking stall in front of the office and walked her across the street.

The moonlight made it a perfect night for romance. The stars winked at them from the heavens.

A fact he didn't seem to notice. He seemed distant, and faraway. He didn't touch her and he certainly didn't attempt to kiss her. "Good night, Holly," he said softly, then turned and was gone.

Disappointed, she went in the door and closed it behind her. She went into the bathroom and looked at her face in the mirror It was still there—that look of a woman in love. But there was something else there now, too. A certain sadness that made her eyes look huge and lonesome.

She tugged off the skirt and shirt and slipped into her beautiful old-fashioned nightdress. It was pure white, high-collared, embroidered down the front.

In the darkness of her cabin, she went and stood at her window, watched the light go on in his apartment. For a moment, her breath caught in her throat, she watched his silhouette as he took off his clothes.

Her heart hammered in her throat.

A bolder woman, that woman in black, would have crossed the street.

Instead Holly turned away. She might not be a bolder woman, like her mother, but she realized she was not the dowdy secretary she had been portraying for eight months either. He had said to her she was the rarest of things. A person who knew how to be herself.

And she felt she needed to live up to that.

Herself was the girl who looked back at her from the mirror moments ago. Not trying to look professional, not hiding behind her glasses. A disguise was a disguise. Hiding her true assets was as much a lie as her mother's paint and dye.

Not the most beautiful girl, but not ugly either.

With a sigh, she went into the kitchen and pulled a sack of black plastic garbage bags out of the kitchen drawer. She went into her bedroom and opened the closet door. Without one bit of regret she slid the suits from their hangers, the black one, the gray one, the navy one, the white linen that she had been saving for summer. She dropped them into the bag. Tomorrow she would take them to Goodwill, and see if she could talk Jenn into a quick shopping trip with her.

* * *

Jennifer, of course, was thrilled to be asked to go shopping.

And Holly, rather than feeling a heaviness of heart, felt a wonderful excitement as they picked items that suited her and the casual atmosphere of the ranch office. It felt like she was uncovering herself, discovering herself.

"This one," Jenn said, holding up a green silk shirt. "With these jeans."

Holly looked at the price of the shirt and shook her head.

"Holly, what are you spending your money on? You have no expenses. No rent. No children. You drive a thirteen-year-old car that should have been taken off the road six years ago."

Holly thought of the butterscotch candies, and the goldfish and the picture frames. She bought teddy bears, too, because sometimes the little ones were so frightened when they came, and sometimes they had never had a single toy to call their own, so she kept a selection of beautiful brand-new bears to give them. It hadn't taken her long to discover the older children needed those teddy bears just as much as the younger ones.

Still, it was her turn. She took the green shirt and pressed the soft fabric to her face.

Jenn twirled her around, so that she faced the mirror. "Look," she said softly.

Holly gasped. With that shade of green her eyes looked as luminous and as lovely as emeralds.

By the end of the day, her arms were loaded with parcels. Jenn insisted she buy only what she loved. Nothing she felt mediocre about was allowed.

She invited Jenn back to her place for a quick cup of tea before she had to get ready to go for dinner with Steve Darce.

Jenn helped her pick an outfit to wear, and they giggled like schoolgirls as she put it on. The green shirt and white linen pants, a new pair of green earrings that intensified the illusion that her eyes were emeralds.

Holly had turned to get the boiling water when Jenn asked her, "So, does Blake have a clue what you feel?"

She kept her back deliberately turned, poured boiling water into the kettle, tossed in a tea bag. "Blake?"

"You know," Jenn said, "your boss?"

"How I feel about what?" Holly asked. She took a deep breath, set the tea things on a tray and turned with a bright smile to her friend.

"About him."

The smile crumpled, and the tea things slid to one end of the tray. She set them on the table with a bang and sank down into her chair.

"And what do you think I feel about him?" she asked. She poured the tea. Her hand was trembling.

"I think you're madly in love with him."

Holly spilled some tea and set down the pot. "What makes you think that?" she said.

"I saw the look on your face last night. I saw you dancing with him."

"Oh, God." Holly moaned and gave up all pretense of pouring the tea. "I'm obvious. How pathetic."

"I don't think it's pathetic," Jenn said. "I think it's wonderful."

"Wonderful? Are you crazy? Did you see the women around him last night? How gorgeous and glamorous they all were?"

"I did notice that. I also noticed he didn't seem to pay the least bit of attention to them. Every time I looked at him, he was glaring at you."

"Oh, sure. With Torey Canfield and Rosemary Hansen hanging all over him. Not to mention that vision in black."

"I know what I saw," Jenn said stubbornly. "He was looking at you. And you were the one he danced with. Besides, Torey and Rosemary and Kaye have been flirting with him for years. I haven't noticed them getting anywhere."

Come to think of it, when they visited him in the office, Holly could not remember him ever seeming too impressed. Polite. Yes. Smitten? Flattered?

No.

She felt this little flag of hope unfurling in her chest. Could it be she might be the one for him, after all? "You're going to absolutely hate what I tell you next," Jenn said, finishing pouring the tea and handing her a cup.

Holly was scared to ask.

"You need to let him know how you're feeling."

Holly set down the cup. "What?"

"I knew it. You're just the picture of the perfect secretary when you're around him, aren't you? Little Miss Efficient. Competent. Professional."

"I hope you're not suggesting I shouldn't be those things," Holly said huffily.

"Not at all. But you can be those things and let him know how you're feeling."

"I cannot. What would you have me say? 'I've finished typing this letter. P.S. I love you'?"

"I didn't say tell him, I said let him know. Show him."

"I wouldn't have a clue how to do that," Holly said.

"That's what I thought. You're working so hard at keeping your feelings in. Just let them out. Put flowers on his desk. Bake him cookies. Quit trying to hide all the warmth you feel for him."

"I can't," Holly said.

"Why on earth not?"

"I'm scared," she whispered. "I've never felt this way before. I'm terrified."

"Of course you're terrified," Jenn said calmly. "And it's okay to be terrified. It's just not okay to be ruled by it."

There was a knock on the door.

Holly's eyes flew to the clock. "That's Steve already. What do you think? Should I tell him I can't go?"

Jenn shook her head indulgently. "You don't know the first thing about playing this game, do you? No, you go for dinner with the delightful Mr. Darce tonight. I bet Blake is watching out his window right now."

"He is not."

"And tomorrow you don't say a single word about it. Now go and answer the door. And if you can find it in yourself, give Steve a little kiss on the cheek in way of greeting."

Holly went to the door and opened it.

But somehow she couldn't find that in herself.




Eight

Blake looked glumly out his window. He should have been happy to see activity on the ranch again, but it was the wrong kind of activity. That little cabin across the street had become like Grand Central Station all of a sudden.

An hour ago, after disappearing early this morning, Holly had pulled up in her little silver rust-covered car.

Her friend had been right behind her in the fire-engine-red Camaro that clashed with her hair.

Her friend was good-looking in that Torey Canfield way. Glamorous. Well-dressed. Polished.

Empty.

Loaded down with parcels, the two women had disappeared inside the cabin.

Now another car had pulled up in front of her place. Conservative. A white New Yorker, obviously new. Blake told himself he must have something better to do than spy on his secretary.

But he stayed at the window.

The banker got out. The one who had monopolized her all of last night. He still wasn't wearing the little bow tie that would have clued Holly in that he was a nerd.

No, today he looked like the captain of the football team in his Dockers, sports shirt and a black leather jacket.

Black leather jackets, Blake strongly felt, were the exclusive domain of people who rode motorcycles. He hated it when that line was crossed.

What was the banker doing here? He hoped he'd come to get her friend.

But it was Holly who came to the door. For a moment she leaned toward the banker, and Blake had the hopeless feeling she was going to kiss him.

But then she didn't. She ducked back in the house. Hopefully to call her friend. But her friend did not come out.

She did, carrying a sweater.

She was wearing something he had never seen her wear before. A green blouse that hugged her slender body like a glove, casual slacks. He bet that blouse would make her eyes green as emeralds.

The banker held open the door of his car for her, and she smiled and slid in.

Blake watched as they drove away, and then looked back at her porch. Her friend Jenn was out there now, looking straight at his window.

She was grinning wickedly, as if she had caught him spying. With a jaunty wave, she climbed in her own car and was gone.

Annoyed, he dropped the shade and turned away. He spent the rest of the evening pretending to work, and listening for a car to pull up in front of her place.

At around ten the sound he had been waiting for came. Don't look, he ordered himself.

A thought hit him that turned his blood to ice.

What if the banker went in? And didn't come back out?

Fallon, he told himself firmly, it's none of your business. Besides, Holly wasn't that kind of girl. Or at least a week ago she hadn't been. He didn't like the feeling that he didn't know who Holly was anymore. It felt like some great loss. The worst kind of loss, that kind where you hadn't appreciated what you had until it was gone.

He was walking toward his window. He couldn't believe this! He had strictly ordered his mind to sit down and shut up. But his mind, acting like a practiced secret agent who had turned off his bedroom light so he couldn't be seen spying, took him to the window and pulled back the shade a bit.

Holly and the banker were on her porch. His car was still running, which Blake took to be a good sign. The banker knew he wasn't staying. He was also on the bottom step, and Holly was on the top one. Blake also took that as a good sign, as the physical distance between the pair did not bode well if the date was thinking of claiming a kiss. Unless he excelled at hurdles. Thankfully he didn't look like the athletic type. Or the type to boldly steal a kiss.

Even so, Blake felt something shift inside him at the very thought of someone else kissing her. It was like his blood turned from ice to fire, as if he went into a fiercely instinctive mode, like a male grizzly determined to protect his territory.

He dropped the shade and took a step back, contemplating this violent reaction to the thought of Holly kissing someone else.

She wasn't his woman. She was his secretary.

Blake realized, with shock, how badly he wanted to kiss her. To taste her lips with his own, to feel the curves of her pressed eagerly against him as she had been when they danced that last dance together last night.

He went back to his lonely table and sat down, stunned, like a man who had been too close when a bomb had gone off.

He wanted to kiss his secretary. And he wanted it badly. And not only that, he also wanted to punch the daylights out of that guy down there who looked like he might beat him to it.

Even in his debilitated state he was aware when the car left, aware of something within him sighing with relief.

He shook his head, trying to regain his senses. He was her boss. And that made everything he was contemplating wrong. Plain and simple. Wrong. He was a professional man, known for his work ethic and his integrity. Where did wooing one's secretary fit into that equation?

Plain and simple? It didn't.

Especially in light of his position here. These kids needed to be around people who always did the honorable thing. Always.

The kids aren't even here, the side of him that once stole motorcycles told him with fiendish waggling of eyebrows. That part of him would be down his steps and across the road and on her doorstep before the banker cleared the main gate. That part of him would sweep her into his arms, coax out her wild side—

This is Holly, he reminded his darker twin impatiently. Holly was not the kind of girl you had a quick tumble with and then walked away from. He wasn't prepared to lose the best secretary he'd ever had over a moment of wildness, a momentary loss of control.

Blake Fallon was a big advocate of self-control. It was practically the motto by which he ran the ranch. He was also a big advocate of practice what you preach.

He couldn't just pretend to have integrity, he had to have it all the time. Even when no one was looking. These kids in particular had never had good examples set for them. Many of them had parents on the other side of the law, parents with addiction problems, parents who could rationalize anything to get what they wanted.

Blake felt it was crucial his behavior be exemplary in every area. He knew that feeling had intensified since his own father had taken a gun and tried to murder Joe Colton at his own birthday party.

Rafe had implied last night at the dance Blake was overdoing it. That he had become rigid and wasn't even fun anymore.

And he supposed that was true. Somewhere along the line, in his transformation from wild street kid, to responsible, respected adult, he had lost something—the boy who laughed with such reckless abandon, who took delight in scorning the "shoulds," who took chances, and who was fearless in accepting whatever opportunity life presented him with.

Holly wouldn't have liked that boy.

Annoyed with himself that everything came back to her, he stripped off his shirt and jeans, slid into bed and begged for sleep.

Instead, he thought of Holly, her arms around Tomas, the tender look in her eyes as she had caught Blake's gaze over the top of Tomas's head.

And he knew Holly would have liked the wild boy he used to be very, very much. Good girls were always intrigued with wild boys.

Dawn was breaking before he finally fell asleep. And so he did something he had never done before. He slept in. He was late for work.

Holly was already at her desk when he came through the front door.

He had hoped the glasses and hair would be back in place, and that she would be back in one of those formidable outfits that made her look so straight-lined—about as sexy as a ruler.

But when he came through the door the first thing he noticed was that her hair was still down, flowing in a shining river down to her shoulders. He wished he would have touched it at the dance, when he had the opportunity.

The glasses were still missing.

And gone was the suit that looked like it had been mail-ordered from the Miss Manners Office Collection.

She was wearing a soft white V-necked sweater that hugged her slender form. He thought that fabric was called angora. It was a material that begged to be touched.

His mouth went dry, and he ordered himself to be a man of complete and uncompromising integrity.

"Good morning, Blake."

Had she always had a voice like that? Like music? Like bells tinkling?

"Holly." He heard the curtness in his tone and saw her flinch slightly from it. He closed the office door and walked by her, but he made the mistake of sliding one more look at her out the corner of his eye.

Without the glasses her eyes were more expressive than ever.

And she didn't just look hurt by his cool greeting, she looked exhausted.

Integrity, be damned.

"Are you all right?" he asked her, looking more closely. "You don't look good." The look of hurt in her eyes deepened, and he wished he could pull the words back into his mouth, because she had really never looked better. He clarified. "You look tired."

Too late he considered her weariness might be from mooning over the young banker. He certainly didn't want to invite her confidence about that.

"Oh," she said, getting up and going to the filing cabinet, "I'm not sleeping well."

He stared at her skirt. Navy blue. Tight. Short. Her legs were long and slender and perfectly shaped.

The new Holly was a serious danger to his ethics. But it was the old Holly he saw in her eyes and heard in her voice, and it was the old Holly he could not walk away from as if he was not concerned, as if she was just a function and not a human being.

A human being he had come to like and respect very much.

"How come?" he asked softly.

She turned and gave him a wan smile. "I've been having bad dreams."

"About?"

"I keep dreaming about the water being poisoned." She closed her eyes, pressed a hand to her forehead.

He could not stop himself. He went to her, put his hand on her shoulder, turned her to him. "Tell me about them."

The sweater felt like nothing he had ever felt before. The softness, especially with her skin below it, so sensual he had a sudden wild fantasy of picking her up, tossing her on that sofa, kissing her until she was breathless, until that weariness was chased from her eyes, replaced with something quite different.

He dropped his hand from her shoulder as if he'd been burned. So much for Mr. Self-Control Fallon.

"I'm just being silly. It doesn't matter. I mean they're only dreams."

"Tell me about them," he said again.

She hesitated, then looked over his shoulder. "At first it was a monster. Huge and shapeless, red eyes and foul saliva dropping from his mouth. It was an old-fashioned well, like a wishing well, and he'd pour stuff in it. Luminous green and boiling."

"And then?"

She shuddered. "The monster kept changing forms in my dreams. And so did the substance he was pouring in the well. Sometimes it's like tar and other times it's full of horrible things."

"What does the monster change into?"

"Last night," she whispered, "he turned into a man. I had the most dreadful feeling he was someone I know."

Blake registered that and knew the truth in it. Every man had a monster within him. A part of him that would cross the line between what was right and wrong because he could talk himself into it.

For instance, right now it would be so easy to brush aside the "hands-off" vow he had made about his secretary and gather her to him, run his hand down the silk of her hair, feel her breath against his chest.

But what was his real motive? To comfort her? Or to satisfy the part of himself that wanted to know all of her, solve her mysteries, taste her lips?

He settled for giving her shoulder a fraternal little pat. "You can always call me if you're frightened in the night."

The words were out before he had given them proper thought. He was barreling toward the danger zone. Going to her in the night? He bet she wore one of those long white nightgowns, like the ones they wore in Little House on the Prairie. He thought of being her comfort and strength in the night.

He was aware she was looking at him, something glowing in her eyes he had not seen before.

Probably because of the glasses, he told himself firmly.

"Thanks, Blake. I won't need to call you. It's good enough knowing you're so close."

If she had said that last week—with her hair put up primly, and in her conservative suit, her glasses swallowing up half her face—it wouldn't have meant what it meant right now.

It wouldn't have set his heart to racing, made his face feel like it was on fire.

Without one more word, he escaped into his office. But his escape was thwarted somewhat.

She had put a bouquet of flowers on his desk. Wildflowers. He saw them growing around the ranch all the time.

His office was an austere space, much like his apartment above it. It contained a metal desk, nothing fancy, bookshelves, file cases, a couple of chairs. The floor was tiled, and the windows had metal Venetians on them, no curtains.

Everything was in its place.

Those flowers were like an invasion, of something softer and warmer and more colorful. It was like she had found a way to be in his office without even being here.

Which would only make his vow harder to keep.

He picked up the vase, firmly, before he could change his mind. He took them out to her office, set them on the corner of her desk.

"I'm allergic," he said.

For a second he contemplated that. A man who had taken a vow of complete integrity telling such an innocuous lie.

He tried to slip back into his office before the look in her eyes registered, but he was not successful.

Hurt.

He had hurt her.

And somehow he couldn't convince himself that was what integrity was about.

By the end of the week he thought he was going out of his mind. He wondered if he could order her back into those dowdy gray and navy suits that had made it so easy to see her only as a part of his office.

Not furniture, exactly, but just a part of the infrastructure that kept everything running smoothly and efficiently. A background item that was easy to ignore.

Now she was in the foreground, in a new wardrobe that was incredibly flattering to her, that made her not his secretary, but a woman. The old clothes, it seemed to him, had successfully hidden the parts of her that were most dangerous to him.

Her passion. Had the banker brought out this side in her? The new look seemed to coincide with the banker's interest. Blake was desperate to know, and yet he could not bring himself to ask.

If she detected his interest, she might reciprocate it. Then what? Worse, she might not. Then what?

Nothing seemed smooth anymore. Efficient, yes, but not smooth.

He couldn't ask her to write a letter for him without noticing her. The silky shine of her hair. The color of her eyes. The delicate line of her leg when she crossed them in those short skirts, and took dictation.

Calling her into his office, asking her for a file, everything had become about battling the monster within him.

He noticed she looked tired some mornings, and longed to ask if the dreams troubled her, but did not know where his longing would lead. To her bed? Where he could protect her and hold her if she cried in the night?

To her bed. There was the truth of it. The bottom line. He had become sexually attracted to his secretary. Longed to know if that passive exterior hid the passionate interior the new wardrobe suggested.

Longed, if he was brutally honest, to have her give that part of herself to just him.

"I'm losing my mind," he muttered.

"Pardon, Blake?"

"Don't sneak up on me," he snapped.

"Sneak up on you?" she said, astounded and hurt. "I knocked on the door."

He knew he was being a complete jerk with her. Acting as if it was her fault he was going through this, trying to build a high wall so that she couldn't climb it.

"And something else," he said, "don't bring me any more cookies."

Don't you know what you're doing to me? How hard you are making it to fight? Don't you know how I want to bury my head in your neck, allow your tenderness to touch me?

"I'm on a diet," he muttered.

"You're on a diet?" she said, incredulously.

"That's what I said."

"I think there's a name for that disorder. But I thought only girls got it."

Once he would have laughed. How he longed for those days when he used to laugh with her. "I don't want your damned cookies."

Even as her face became coolly chilly, and he saw her pull back her shoulders proudly, he registered far more clearly what she didn't want him to see. He saw her crumpling inside and despised himself.

"Holly, I'm sorry. You're not the only one having trouble sleeping at night." Though he could not use bad dreams as his excuse. He was lying awake contemplating the ethics of what he felt for his secretary.

He despised himself even more for how easily she forgave him.

"It's been an enormous strain on you," she said quietly. "I know you want the kids back here."

God, yes. A ranch full of kids yelling and running and jumping and needing things from him was just what he needed to fill up his mind, to remove from it the intensity of focus he now had on her.

"I do," he said. But he couldn't bring them back just to make his life easier, just as something to insert between him and her.

He longed for his life of a week ago, when everything had been so blessedly simple. He longed for how he used to be able to talk to her, for the laughter they had shared that seemed to have shriveled between them now. Not her fault, any of it, but he wanted to blame her, anyway.

"Why don't you go over to the Coltons and have lunch with the kids?" she suggested. "Bring the cookies."

"That's a good idea," he said, glancing at the clock. If he left right now, he'd be there right at lunchtime.

Don't ask her, he ordered himself. But his mind was like a crew in mutiny—it rarely listened to him anymore, flaunted his commands.

"So, you want to come along?"

Something leapt in her eyes, and then died. She turned away from him.

"No thanks," she said.

"Okay." Her reply hurt him, even though he should have expected nothing less. How had this happened? How had they gone from having such a good working relationship to this?

He sighed as she quietly closed the door behind her. He accepted full responsibility.

He shrugged into his jacket, and at the last minute, remembered her cookies.

They'd been there when he arrived this morning. A huge plate of cookies, dripping with chocolate chips and smelling of heaven.

He felt like he was battling the devil, struggling to be the man he had to be, temptation put in his path all the time.

Small temptations. Like cookies.

Cookies that would taste of dreams he had long since decided were for other men. Dreams of little houses that smelled of cookies baking and rang with the laughter of children playing.

What did a man like him know of such things?

What he knew was that dysfunction was multi-generational. He was the son of a man who had attempted murder. He was only a few steps removed from his own past.

He didn't know how to be part of a family. He didn't know how to be the man Holly would need for him to be.

It occurred to him that without his permission everything was escalating. He wasn't just thinking of ravishing her on the couch anymore.

No, his thoughts were far scarier than that now.

Little temptations paving the way.

Didn't she know if he ate one of these cookies, he might be lost? That the control he exercised was a fragile thing, and he did not know what would push him over the edge?

He shook his head in self-mockery. What kind of man thought his entire fate turned on a cookie?

Rebelliously, he took one and popped the whole thing in his mouth.

A mistake.

Ecstasy. One step closer to being lost.




Nine

"It's backfiring," Holly said, opening the cardboard box of Chinese food that Jenn had brought for supper. She looked at the pork dumplings without interest, took one to be polite.

"What do you mean it's backfiring?" Jenn didn't have her lack of appetite at all. Her plate was already piled high with the Szechuan-style Chinese food they both preferred.

Holly pushed a grain of rice across her plate with her chopstick. "At least I used to feel like Blake liked me. I've wrecked what we had. He used to be friendly, now he's curt. He used to ask my opinions on things, now he avoids me. He used to be good-humored and fun and now he's stern and remote."

"Really?" Jenn asked avidly.

"Really," Holly said glumly. "I've ruined everything."

"My honest opinion is there was nothing to ruin. You loved him, he didn't know you were alive. I think you're reading this all wrong."

"In what way?"

"He knows you're alive."

"He hates me!"

"Hates you?" Jenn asked with interest. "What would make you say that?"

Holly told her about the cookies.

"My," Jenn said, putting a whole pork dumpling in her mouth and chewing thoughtfully, "doesn't that strike you as rather a strong reaction to cookies? What did he say exactly, again?"

"'I don't want your damned cookies.'"

Jenn's eyes went very wide. "This is better than I hoped."

"Oh, sure."

"Think about it, Holly. He doesn't want the damned cookies, he wants you!"

Holly took a desultory bite of her ginger beef and gave her friend a suspicious look. "Are you reading too many romance novels?" It was her friend who had introduced her to the delights of a good love story.

"There's no such thing as reading too many. I read two a week, three in a good week."

"Real life doesn't work like that!" Holly wailed.

"Holly, cynicism does not suit you. If you're going to get that man, you have to trust me and follow my instructions exactly."

Holly was not sure she wanted to turn her romantic life so completely into Jenn's keeping. Her friend had admirers coming out her ears, it was true, but her longest relationship had lasted just under six weeks.

"What are your instructions?" she asked reluctantly.

"More of everything. More cookies. More accidental meeting of hands. Turn up the heat. Bring a romantic picnic lunch packed for two."

"And if he says 'I don't want your damned lunch'?"

"Then you say 'Fine, I'll call Steve and he can come eat it with me.'"

To Holly it did sound like the plot of a romance novel. Lure the boss in with romantic gestures and if that didn't work, try to make him jealous. What Jenn didn't seem to get was that Blake had to care about her in order to be jealous.

"I don't know," she said uneasily. "I think I should just go back to the way I was before. Everything seemed so much more comfortable."

"Comfortable?" Jenn said. "Good grief. Is that what you want—comfortable?"

"Yes," Holly said firmly.

"Well, then stick with Steve. You'll get comfortabled near to death. You can take up golfing and learn to play cribbage. But if you want your heart to beat faster and your temperature to heat up and skyrockets to go off, Blake is your man."

Holly wanted to deny she wanted all those things. But she couldn't.

"So are you ready to instigate Plan B, for Week 2?"

"No," Holly said.

"Holly, it's one week out of your life. For heaven's sake, be bold, be daring."

"That's what you said last week."

"I tell you, it's working. You've got to be ready to fight for what you want, girl."

"You're not there in that office. He snapped at me about a misplaced file—and it turned out he had misplaced it!"

"You're crumpling his defenses. Don't take the pressure off now, he'll have a chance to rebuild, and they'll go up stronger than before. You know what? He's a control freak, and you're threatening his control. He probably has a rule book somewhere that says 'Thou shalt not romance your secretary.'"

Even Holly had to admit there might be a kernel of truth in that observation. "What exactly would you pack in a romantic picnic lunch?"

"Oh," Jenn said, thrilled to be asked, "white wine, croissants, two kinds of cheese and strawberries. Strawberries are the most romantic food."

"What do you want to bet he's allergic to them?" Holly said sourly.

"Promise me you'll try it. Promise."

Holly felt trapped.

"Say it."

"Okay. I'll try it."

"What day?"

"Jenn—"

"What day?"

"Does it have to be next week?"

"Yes."

"Friday, then."

"Good. That gives you four days to build up to it. Lots of accidental nudges, long looks, nice gestures. More cookies. Those seemed to get a great reaction."

"I'd hate to hear your definition of great," Holly said.

Still, there was a certain relief in having a plan, instead of just floundering along in a kind of desperate misery hoping she chanced upon the right thing.

She dressed carefully Monday morning. The white angora sweater seemed to get a reaction that she liked and he didn't. She thought the navy skirt was a little too short, but she hadn't missed him sneaking peeks at her legs.

She eyed herself in the mirror, her stomach in knots. She just wasn't suited for this kind of thing. She picked up her purse.

"Another day in the trenches," she told herself as she headed across the street, cookies in hand.

It occurred to her this war would be so much easier if there was no emotion involved, if she could play her part with detachment.

But as soon as he walked in, his hair still wet and curling from the shower, she felt totally flustered. Wordlessly, she handed him the bag of cookies.

He opened them, looked in and looked angry. Angry. That was the part Jenn didn't get to see.

"I thought I told you—"

"Oh, you did," she said, amazed by how composed she sounded. "In no uncertain terms. Didn't want my damned cookies, I think you put it. I made them for the kids. You have a staff meeting at the Coltons' at eleven." And she went back to her typing.

But she noticed he stood there for a long time, staring at her before he moved on.

When he left for the meeting he didn't have the cookies with him. She found the bag on his desk, half devoured.

And for the first time in a long time, she found herself smiling. And then laughing. Jenn was right. He wasn't showing her how he was feeling with all that crankiness, he was hiding how he was feeling.

For the first time since she had started toying with this daisy of I-love-you, I-love-you-not, she had a feeling she might end up holding the I-love-you petal. It lit a light in her heart that he could not begin to put out.

She did everything Jenn had told her. She touched his arm when she talked to him, and noticed with pleasure rather than pain how swiftly he pulled away. That was not the reaction of a man who was feeling nothing. That was the reaction of a man who was feeling way too much.

Still, on Friday she was terrified as she hauled in her huge wicker basket and set it on the corner of her desk.

He stopped in the doorway as soon as he saw it.

"Someone sending you gifts?" he asked.

"No."

Did he really look relieved? Really?

"What's this about, then?" He came over and peeled back the checked cover.

"I brought it. I was hoping you'd have lunch with me today."

He flipped the cover back as if it had pricked him with thorns. "Holly, I can't. Not today. I—"

She smiled sweetly. "That's all right. I'll ask Steve. It would be a shame for that to go to waste."

"Who the hell is Steve? The banker, I suppose?"

"As a matter of fact, he is a banker. I wasn't aware that was a bad thing."

He glared at her. She was aware of holding her breath, but she would not look away from him. Was he going to call her bluff?

"Actually," he said, finally, "I think maybe we need to get out of the office. It seems tense in here lately."

"Does it?" she asked innocently.

"I know a great place for a picnic."

If she wasn't careful she would blow it all now by leaping up out of her chair and throwing herself into his arms.

Instead, she turned to her computer and said, "Great, I can't wait."

At noon he came out of his office and took the basket off her desk. "Are those shoes okay for a little hike?"

She nodded, and soon they were walking side by side along a well-worn trail that led off the ranch and up through the timber.

And amazingly, it was like everything was all right between them again. Blake laughed and helped her up the trail; they popped the cork on the wine halfway up, because they had forgotten water.

He took a swig and handed her the bottle. She didn't wipe it before she took a sip, too.

It was like they were old friends who had not talked for a long time. And when he took her hand to help her up the last little rocky stretch, it felt like that was where her hand was meant to be. In his, traveling the trails of life together.

They arrived on a little outcrop that overlooked the deserted ranch and the countryside around it. The view was panoramic and the sun was mellow and rich.

She spread the blanket that was at the bottom of the basket, and took out the picnic items. He stretched out on his side, propped up on his elbow.

"This was a great idea, Holly."

"Thanks. I thought so."

"Things haven't been the same between us for a while," he said softly, regarding her intently.

"Yes, I know."

"And why do you think that is?"

She shrugged. "I don't know." Jennifer had forgotten to coach her on this part.

"I don't know either," he said. "But I like this better."

"Me, too."

They talked about the ranch and the Coltons and the kids. He told her some ideas he was working on for a new ranch program for the boys in The Shack.

"They're the ones who are special to you, aren't they, Blake, those boys who have flirted with the dark side of life?"

"Those boys are me," he said.

"I know."

"Do you?"

"Yes." And she did. She knew him to his soul.

"How can you know all the things I've tried so hard to keep secret?" he asked.

"I know all about that wild guy in you, Blake, the one you've tried to tame and never quite succeeded."

His eyebrows shot up.

Suddenly she didn't need Jenn to tell her what to do. She knew. She just knew.

"I know," she said softly, "how much that wild boy has wanted to do this."

And just like that she kissed him. She leaned forward and touched his lips with hers.

He froze, and for a moment, just a moment, she thought she had overplayed her hand, that her instincts had failed her.

But then he groaned, a groan of defeat, and surrender and wanting.

And his hand trailed down her hair and found the back of her neck, and it pulled her in closer to him.

His lips were not tentative as hers were. She realized immediately that he did not share her innocence.

His lips were experienced, and they claimed hers totally, commanded her. Her mouth parted beneath that command, and his tongue found the warm hollow of her mouth.

She was shocked by how rapidly an innocent kiss could catch fire—and thrilled by the nameless sensations that shuddered through her as his passion deepened.

It felt like all her life she had waited for this one moment.

And for him to share it with her.

This was the place where dreams met reality, and where some dreams would have shattered under the force of the collision.

But that was not what happened to the dream of Holly Lamb.

It took wing. Her love for him took wing. Nothing in her held back from him. Nothing. She gave everything she was to that meeting of lips—her heart, her soul, her fire.

And it felt like he gave everything he was back to her.

In the kiss were all his secrets—a wild passion, a part of him that was untamed and uncontrolled. But it held also the essence of the man. His great will and integrity, his solidness.

What she had never known before was that a kiss was not an ending.

Before, that was all it had been to her. The ending of a wonderful movie, or a good book. The ending of an evening.

But on that knoll with Blake under a mellow sun, she discovered this kiss was not an ending. But a beginning.

For almost as fast as it had filled her, it now left her longing for more, longing to follow its heated path to the core of her own femininity, to the core of her own passion.

Her hands explored him, hungry for that more. Hungry to know him. She touched the hard muscles of his shoulders and his broad back with wonder that became delight that became more hunger. It wasn't enough to feel his back through his shirt. She wanted to touch his skin.

She became aware that his hands too were exploring, not with her urgency, though. Stroking her back, and her neck and her cheek, his power leashed, his wanting curbed.

His hands on her. Her hands on him. Their lips tangled together. It was a type of delicious sensory overload that obliterated all else. Soon sensation became everything.

Even the sky faded, the scent of crushed grass, and trees and the strawberries.

Her mind held only one thought, and it was a thought without words, a thought that went back to the beginnings of time and soared forward into the future.

If it had taken form it would have been: Know him.

In every way.

Know his lips and his touch, know how her own fingers reacted to his skin beneath them, and how that set off a chain reaction of shivers and tingles.

Know him.

Her body, her mind, her spirit united in this quest.

Know him.

In this new and wondrous way, know him.

Boldly, transforming into a woman she had not been before, she tugged his shirt out of his jeans, and sighed when she felt the silk of his skin beneath her fingertips.

"Holly."

It was part groan and part protest and part welcome. Lightly she ran her fingers over the smooth skin at the small of his back, allowed them to trail higher, trace the wings of his great shoulders, the muscles and ridges.

If she was blind, this is what braille would have been to her. The wonder that opened up a whole new world, a whole new dimension.

She would never ever be the same woman she had been ten minutes ago.

And then his lips left hers, and she felt him taking her hands from his back, guiding them away from him.

She opened her eyes and looked at him.

He looked at her, tortured, torn. In his eyes she saw that he wanted her.

And in his face she saw that he was betraying something he held to be true by wanting her so desperately.

"What?" she whispered, stealing by the guard of his hands, touching him again.

He closed his eyes, gathering himself to say no to her.

"Blake, don't—"

But he did. He took her hand and put it gently away from him.

"We can't do this, Holly."

"Why?" She waited in terror. There was someone else. He didn't care about her in that way. He would never care about her in that way.

"It's wrong."

"Wrong?" Wrong as in against his religion. Did he have a religion? How could he call something that had been so right, wrong?

"Holly, I'm your boss."

"Oh. That kind of wrong. Against-your-principles wrong."

"Exactly."

She looked at him closely. Was that all it was? Or was it something more? Was that just his tactful way of letting her know it wasn't the same for him as it was for her?

She knew it couldn't be the same for him, because she could not have stopped it. Not even with the considerable effort it had taken him.

She did not even want to stop it now, her desire at war with her pride. Part of her wanted to ignore him, fling herself at him, capture his lips again, use every bit of her feminine power to dispel his.

But when she looked at his face, she could not.

He was looking away from her, over the valley, something in his expression hard and cold and totally unapproachable.

"It must be hard being inside you," she said, and damned the shaking of her voice. "The renegade and the righteous sharing the same body."

He laughed a little. "It's very hard." Then he looked at her closely. "It must be hard being inside you—the innocent and the passionate sharing the same body."

"What makes you think I'm innocent?" That kiss had tempted something bolder, wilder to her surface. Somehow she thought it might have fooled him.

"Just a guess," he said, not at all fooled.

"I don't plan to be that way forever." It was possibly the boldest thing she had said in twenty-seven years. An unmistakable invitation.

Blake got off the blanket as if it had been invaded by ants, and began to pack things away. He wouldn't look at her.

Holly was devastated. There. She had tossed all the dice, she had not one single thing left.

And the answer was still no.

He glanced at her, and she saw the pity in his face. Pity. Just what every woman who had just brazenly offered herself to a man wanted to see.

"I have to do the ethical thing," he told her gently. "Do you understand that?"

"Of course," she said, getting up, turning away from him, pretending to brush crumbs from her clothing, when she was fighting not to cry.

"Holly, we can't do this. Do you understand? How can we work together, in the same office if we follow that path we were just on?"

"I understand perfectly." Somehow her moment had slipped away from her. She could see the resolution on his face, the determination.

Set against her.

She wondered if she crossed the distance between them if she could change that. With her lips, her body.

But suddenly she felt very uncertain herself, and did not feel strong enough to withstand another blow. She let him go ahead down the path, watched the grace of his walk with a longing that was intensified now that she had tasted him and touched him.

As they walked silently back toward the ranch, they could see from above a car pull into the driveway.

A white car. A big car.

Stephen Darce.

Blake's face was blacker than thunder.

"You can't have it both ways," she told him quietly. "You can't not have me, and have me, too."

"I know that."

"Then you have a decision to make."

"It's already made."

She looked at the strength in his face, the torment.

"I didn't tell him to come here," she said.

"It's okay. I know the feeling. He probably can't stay away."

She would not let that enigmatic statement give her hope. She would not. It was over. Before it had really begun, it was over.




Ten

Blake tried not to let his fury show as they approached the office, and Steve Darce stood waiting for them, leaning his fanny against the side of his car of his snow-white luxury car.

Blake slid Holly a look, trying to see how she felt about the banker. Or the car.

Her face was carefully blank.

But the banker's was not. Steve, who had that fresh-scrubbed boy scout look that Blake would never attain, not if he was respectable for a million years, looked from Holly to Blake to the picnic basket and back to Blake. Blake did nothing to dispel the uncomfortable understanding that dawned in Darce's eyes.

"I've come at a bad time," he said.

Blake said nothing.

But Holly, always the kind one, rushed to put him at ease. "Of course you haven't, Steve. But what are you doing here?"

"I called your office earlier. When there was no answer I started to worry. You know with the water thing still unsolved—"

Darce's concern for Holly blackened a mood Blake would have sworn ten seconds ago could not get any darker. Plus, he wondered what exactly Holly had confided in Darce about the water. Had she told him about the bad dreams? Had he done more than pat her shoulder?

"Blake and I were just out of the office for a bit."

Blake shot her a look. Her hair was scattered around her head, her cheeks were on fire, and there were little bits of grass stuck in her sweater. The picnic basket was obviously depleted, and the neck of the bottle of wine stuck out of it. If Darce was dim enough not to get it, then he was going to go and withdraw all his money from the bank. Bankers were supposed to be smart.

"Thank you for being concerned, Steve," she said softly.

As if any man's brains could be expected to work properly after that.

"Look, since I'm here—" He shot Blake a look that let him know this was personal.

Blake stubbornly folded his arms over his chest and planted his feet apart.

"I need to talk to you." When it was obvious Blake wasn't moving, he leaned closer to her. "I got some tickets to 98 Degrees. They are very hard to come by. I wondered if you might like to go."

Blake was dimly aware, from working with teenagers, and teenage girls in particular that 98 Degrees was what was known as a "boy band." Good-looking guys who sang romantic music that gave girls the entirely erroneous impression that guys thought of relationships all the time, when in fact guys thought mostly about football stats, and motorcycle parts, and only managed to squeeze in the odd thought about women on the off chance that they might get lucky.

He hoped Holly would have the sense to know that band was not only too young for her, but that the message of that kind of music was hopelessly naive.

Steve Darce, however, looked like he might be thinking about Holly more than motorcycle parts, which made Blake want to go over to him, lift him up by his lapels and slam him against the car.

Even though, come to think of it, he had been thinking about her more than motorcycle parts himself.

She hesitated, and studied her toe rather than look at either of them. "When is it?"

That didn't sound like the out-and-out no Blake was hoping for. At all.

Steve named a date three weeks away, which Blake contemplated. It might be a good thing, in that Steve wasn't enthusiastic enough to be asking her about tonight or tomorrow. And it might be a bad thing in that Steve was obviously thinking about Holly long term.

"Can I think about it and get back to you?" she asked.

Steve gave Blake an accusing look as if he had spoiled a nice moment. Blake looked back at him unflinchingly. It gave him a certain satisfaction that Steve blinked first.

"Sure. That would be fine. And by the way, tomorrow is—"

Blake knew if he stayed here a moment longer he was not going to be responsible for what happened next. At least Darce had his glasses on today. Somewhere in that code of ethics that was causing Blake such grief, there was a rule about dealing with guys in glasses.

"Holly," he snapped, "I'm taking the rest of the day off. Cancel my afternoon appointments. And the conference call." He managed, just barely, not to be sarcastic about her conducting her personal business on the ranch dime, but only because they had just been consuming wine and exchanging kisses on the ranch dime themselves.

She gave him a surprised look, as if she was astounded he had a personal life.

Which he didn't.

Blake bypassed his office and went up the stairs to his apartment. His black leather jacket hung way back in his closet. There was dust on it. He slipped it on, and it felt like coming home.

She was at her desk, when he came back down the stairs, Darce nowhere in evidence. She was looking studiously at something on her computer. She raised a hand absently in farewell, then did a double take, looked quickly away, a blush rising in her cheeks.

So, she thought he looked great in black leather. She wasn't the first woman to share that weakness.

"I didn't know you had a motorcycle," she squeaked.

There. She didn't know the most important things about him.

"Didn't you?"

She shook her head. "I always wanted to try that."

Temptation reared its ugly head. Ask her. Ask her to play hooky with him, and spend a splendid day, with her arms wrapped around him, the wind tangling in her hair, her laughter in his ears.

Fallon, he told himself, you've played quite enough hooky for one day.

He managed to get out the door without giving in to the temptation that wrestled with bearlike strength within his brain. And moments later he had his big bike out of a back shed. It throbbed comfortably to life, just as if it had been yesterday he rode it, instead of six or seven months ago. He rode flat-out down country roads, losing track of time, outrunning the chaos and confusion inside of him. It was getting dark by the time he turned toward home, and he ached with weariness, a passable imposter for serenity.

Passing a little roadside bar that had excellent food, he saw Rafe's vehicle, and on impulse pulled over and went in. The lighting was dim, but he spotted Rafe at a booth in the corner.

He'd forgotten that Libby was a part of the Rafe equation now. They were just finishing dinner. Blake wanted to talk to Rafe. He really didn't want a woman's take on the events of the afternoon. He turned to leave, but Rafe suddenly spotted him and did a double take that reminded him of Holly's earlier.

"Hey, Renegade!" Rafe motioned him over. "Are you out on your bike? I can't believe it. I haven't seen you ride that old hog for ages."

Libby seemed to sense Blake's need, because after a minimum of chitchat she glanced suddenly at her watch and gave a little cry of dismay.

"I have an appointment," she said. "Rafe, I'll see you later. Blake, good seeing you again."

Something smoldered in both their eyes, and Blake had the feeling that Rafe was thinking way too much about things other than football stats and motorcycle parts himself. Blake felt this furious flash of envy that tonight Rafe was not going to bed alone.

And if he had played his damn cards right he wouldn't be either.

"You want to talk?" Rafe asked, gesturing to the abandoned seat at the booth.

"No," Blake snapped.

"Okay, you want to play some pool?"

"That sounds more like it."

It was after Blake had missed every shot that Rafe said, "You might as well tell me."

"Tell you what?" Blake said defensively.

"You haven't missed shots like those since you were nine years old."

"So, I'm having an off day."

"And I haven't seen that particular look on your face for a long time either."

"What look is that?"

"It's a kind of I'm-looking-for-an-excuse-to-bust-somebody's-face look. Along with the black leather, it's a pretty menacing combination. It seems to have scared Libby into the next county."

"Sorry," he muttered.

"Just tell me. It can't be any worse than some of your other stuff. I know everything bad there is to know about you, remember? You can't shock me, offend me or scare me."

Blake leaned on his pool cue. "I kissed my secretary today."

Rafe flubbed the shot, turned and looked at him over his shoulder. "Was it good?"

"That's not the point!"

"It's not? You're up."

Blake took a clean miss on a simple bank shot. "A boss can't kiss his secretary."

"You mean, there she was filing papers and you snuck up behind her and whirled her around, bent her over backward and kissed her while she screamed and flailed at you?" Rafe chalked his cue, blew the dust off, regarded Blake over the top of it.

"No. We were, um, on a picnic."

"A picnic?"

Neither man was even pretending to play pool anymore.

"She packed a picnic." He put enough swear words between "a" and "picnic" to make a sailor blush.

But Rafe only laughed. "She packed a picnic?"

"Yeah."

"Like what? Peanut butter sandwiches?"

"Not exactly."

"Tell me. Exactly."

"Cheese, strawberries, wine. Stuff like that."

"I'm no expert, but if Libby packed me a lunch like that, she'd expect me to kiss her."

"Holly isn't Libby."

"Same species."

"Even if that is what she expected, that doesn't make it right."

"In what way?"

"I'm her boss."

"Wasn't this bugging you at the dance the other night?"

He wanted to deny it. He couldn't.

"I'll tell you again, Blake, you're taking the Dudley-do-Right thing a little too far. You've already outrun your misspent youth. And just because your dad took a shot at somebody doesn't mean you have to keep proving you're lily white. We all know you aren't capable of doing anything even remotely naughty from littering to going too fast on your motorcycle to kissing your secretary."

"If anybody else said that, they'd be on the floor," Blake said tersely.

"It's probably why so few people are willing to tell you the truth. Look, you've wanted to hit somebody since you came in here. It might as well be me—at least I won't press charges. Who knows? I might take you."

Blake felt the darkness lighten and smiled with self-mocking. "That would be a first."

"You want some advice?"

"No."

"Yes, you do. That's why you came in here when you saw my vehicle."

"All right," Blake snapped. "As if I've ever been able to stop you from talking once you've got your mind set to it."

"Come out of the dark ages."

"Pardon?"

"In your non-relationship with your secretary, you have all the power, according to you."

"And I don't want to abuse it," Blake said, stung by the non-relationship comment.

"It's abuse when she doesn't have a choice. Say if you were making unwanted passes at her, pinching her behind when she walked by, peering down her shirt, accidentally brushing her curves. That would be an abuse of power. There's the I'm-gonna-cream-somebody look again, and I'm the only one here. Calm down, Blake. I know you aren't acting like that, for God's sake. I'm explaining something.

"A more subtle abuse of power is not allowing her to make choices. You're going to be the one totally in control all the time. From what I've seen of Holly, she is quite capable of making good choices for herself. Maybe, as unthinkable as it seems to me when I look at your ugly mug, she wants you. I mean, why else a picnic lunch?"

Blake thought about the picnic lunch, the cookies, the flowers.

Rafe continued. "She gave out the signal, not you. So, ask her out. The choice is hers. If she says no, then absolutely no forcing kisses upon her behind the filing cabinet. If she says yes…" Rafe shrugged wickedly.

Blake stared at him. Could it be that simple? Could this ethical struggle he'd been involved in be a non-issue?

"Blake, is it really about being a good boss, or is this it?"

"It?"

"It. You know, the one. The first woman who's ever got through that tough shell of yours, the first one who has made you realize what intimacy can be."

Blake sensed a frightening truth in that. Holly, his plain little secretary, had snuck by his defenses when he wasn't looking. He had never guarded his heart against her. Maybe would not have been able to if he tried.

Because she was so different than all the other women he had known.

Deep. Compassionate. Funny. Smart. Warm.

She filled some hole in him that no one had ever come close to even touching before. Rafe had hit the nail on the head.

He wasn't worried about being a good boss.

He was worried about surrendering his soul.

"I'm going to tell you something in total confidence, Blake."

Blake eyed him warily.

"She needs you right now. She's going to need someone strong to stand by her."

"Why?"

"I can't tell you."

"Hey, I just spilled my guts to you."

"Trust me on this one. It's better that you don't know. If you ran off half-cocked right now, months of hard work could be jeopardized."

"You know who poisoned the water," Blake guessed in a low, threatening growl.

"I might."

Blake knew if Rafe had decided not to tell him he was never going to get it out of him. Never. Perhaps that was one of the reasons they had remained good friends for so many years. Because that same band of steel-hard stubbornness ran through both of them.

"What's it got to do with Holly?"

Rafe ran a hand through his hair. "I told you, I'm not telling you. But I'll tell you this: If you have feelings for her, you don't have time to debate it for another few months, deciding what's wrong and what's right. She's going to need you to be there for her now. Right now. Within days."

"I hope she's not going to be too disappointed about 98 Degrees," Blake muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing," Blake said, putting down his pool cue. "I've got to go."

"Good luck, buddy," Rafe said softly.

* * *

Her light was still on when he pulled up on his motorcycle. He shut it off in front of her cabin and took the steps two at a time. He pounded on her door. "Holly!"

She came and opened it a crack, and peeped around it. He'd been right about the nightgown. Straight out of Little House on the Prairie. White, sweeping the floor, little ruffles at the high neckline and at the cuffs around the sleeves. How could something so prim be so damned sexy?

He looked hard at her. For somebody who was supposed to be excited about a concert she looked like she'd been crying.

"Hi," he said casually, as if it wasn't nearly midnight.

"Hi," she said.

"Did I wake you up? I thought I saw a light."

"No, you didn't wake me."

"Can I come in? Just for a second?"

"Uh—"

"I'll wait. If you want to throw on a pair of jeans or something."

She wanted to say no. He could tell. He'd hurt her quite enough for one day. But she didn't say no. She nodded and closed the door.

He stood on the porch, went to the edge of it and looked at the sky.

It felt like he had never seen stars before. Ever. The air felt velvety and warm.

He heard the door whisper open behind him, and turned back. She had pulled a robe over the nightgown, knotted it at the waist.

He felt like he was looking at the future. The way she would look puttering around the house on a Sunday morning. Or when he brought her tea and the newspaper in bed.

He was asking her on a date, he reminded himself roughly, not to marry him.

She held open the door, and he went through it. He had seen her place once before, when he had picked her up for the dance.

It looked different tonight. She was burning candles, and it looked soft and welcoming, like a place a man who had been running all his life could take his heart to rest.

If she said yes.

If she made the choice.

"I was wrong," he said, looking down at her, fighting hard the urge to take her in his arms, pull her to him, taste her lips again.

"Wrong?" she asked.

"About it being wrong."

Her eyes widened. "I'm not sure I'm following you."

"I told you it was wrong. That kiss on the hill today."

"Oh," she said, and even in the soft glow of the candlelight he could see the blush moving up her cheeks, staining them the most beautiful shade of pink.

"If you'll give me a chance, I want to try this again. Not me boss, you secretary. But me man, you woman." God, he thought he sounded like Tarzan.

Her mouth worked for a moment, but not a sound came out. Were those tears sparkling in her eyes? He was making a complete mess of this, but he plunged stubbornly ahead anyway, a man who had decided to navigate quicksand, even though he knew fully the risks.

"I don't want it to be like asking you to the dance. It's not to thank you for the wonderful job you do of looking after me in the office. It's got nothing to do with the office. I'd like to take you out. Because I like you. Because I want to know you better."

For the longest time he thought he'd blown it, her silence stretched so long.

"I want," he finally said, "for the choice to be yours. Will you go out with me?"

"Yes," she whispered.

Suddenly he wished they could just skip all the next part. Going out together. Awkwardly holding hands during a movie, sharing buttered popcorn, slipping his hand over her shoulder.

He wanted to just get to the part where his lips were on her lips again. And other parts of her, too.

He reminded himself he did a fair imitation of a civilized man now.

And besides, this was Holly. Decent, wholesome Holly.

"So," he said, "maybe a movie tomorrow night?"

Did she look disappointed?

"Unless you have a better idea," he said, remembering what Rafe had said about sharing power, giving her choice.

Her whole face brightened up. "What I'd really like to do is go for a motorcycle ride. Could we do that?"

Why hadn't he thought of that?

"Sure," he said. "We could do that. There's a nice little inn about thirty miles north of here on the secondary highway. We could go there for dinner and come back."

"That sounds perfect."

He could leave now, but he didn't.

The tension was suddenly in the room. Electrical. Sensual. That kiss of this afternoon whispered on the air between them. He wondered if her lips would still taste of strawberries.

He stepped toward her.

Her eyes were wide and reminded him so poignantly of what he had tasted in that kiss, besides strawberries.

Innocence.

That was the part he'd forgotten to discuss with Rafe. Holly's innocence in the face of his experience.

"I'll pick you up around five. Do you have a leather jacket?"

"No."

"I'll see what I can dig up for you. I probably have one I've outgrown somewhere." The one he'd stolen when he was fourteen would fit her perfectly. It was probably a measure of his true character that he still had a soft spot for that jacket.

Now he could leave. He still didn't. He took another step toward her. And then another. And then he dropped his head and tasted her lips.

Not strawberries anymore.

They tasted like rain. Clean and pure.

Before he totally lost his head, he spun on his heel and went out the door. And ordered himself to think of motorcycle parts and football stats until five o'clock tomorrow.

But somehow he already knew he wasn't going to listen.




Eleven

Holly touched her lips and stared at the door that had just closed behind Blake. The smell of his leather jacket, tangy and rich, still filled the air of her small cottage, swirled around her like an embrace.

All she could think was that dreams, those elusive wisps of hope and magic that she had been about to pack away and hide under her bed for good, came true for ordinary girls like her, after all.

Blake had asked her out, and he couldn't have been more plain. His interest in her was pure and potently masculine.

The taste of his lips was still on hers, and she touched her tongue to her own lips and felt joyful and afraid and joyful again. Could he love her? Could a man like Blake Fallon ever love a woman like her?

She reminded herself firmly that it was a date, not a declaration of love.

But when she remembered the smoldering look in his gray eyes, she shivered and hugged herself.

She spent the entire next day on pins and needles like a bride before her wedding. She tried on different outfits and fiddled with her makeup and played with her hair.

But in the end she had to concede to the reality she had created: She was going to be on a motorcycle. Which meant that navy blue skirt that always got such a nice reaction at the office was out. And so was too much makeup as the wind would be blowing in her face. If her eyes teared, she didn't want mascara running down her cheeks. And as for her hair, there was no sense going to great lengths for that either, because she would be wearing a helmet that would squish whatever she did anyway.

She ended up wearing her new green shirt and a pair of jeans, flat sensible shoes and just the faintest touch of makeup. She left her hair loose.

She tried to read. She tried to clean her house. She tried to knit.

But she could not make the time fly by until he got there. It was a humbling experience because Holly had always secretly scorned women who went to bits over men, who put their own lives on a shelf for the latest beau.

But then, with a gentleness born of the love blossoming within her, Holly forgave herself. This wasn't her latest beau. This was her only beau.

This was the first time she had ever been in the grip of these wonderful and terrifying emotions and she knew she had to give herself a little leeway. Even the most practical of women were entitled to lose their heads once in a while.

Once in a lifetime.

And that was how she felt when she finally heard the motorcycle stop outside her house. Like she had completely lost her head. She wanted to run and change clothes. She wanted to run to the mirror and do a final check. She wanted to hide under the bed. No, she wanted to fling herself into his arms. How could two such wildly opposing thoughts hold court in the same brain?

The knock came at the door. Firm and strong.

She felt giddy and hot and cold, and she wished she had never started this, and was so glad that she had.

She took a deep, steadying breath and went to the door and opened it.

And amazingly, just like that, she felt just right.

He was wearing his black leather jacket and faded jeans, and his hair fell boyishly over his forehead. His gray eyes took her in, and a light winked on in them.

"I brought you this." He held up the jacket for her, and she turned around and slipped her arms into it.

It fit her like a black leather glove, and it had a tantalizing aroma to it. Leather, but something more. The boy he used to be clung to that jacket, wild and rebellious and devil-may-care. She snuggled into it.

"Nice fit," he said, turning her around and eyeing her with frank male appreciation.

Her. Holly Lamb.

Then he kissed her, on the tip of her nose, and leaned back, smiling. "You look great in black leather. I never figured you for a wild kind of girl."

Somehow she knew he was going to coax the wild side of her to the surface. Maybe she had always known that, and it had formed part of the irresistible attraction she felt for him.

He waited while she locked the door to her house, and they walked down the steps together.

He had two helmets on the seat of the motorbike, and he took one off and crooked a finger at her.

She stepped close to him, and he set it down on her head and guided it over her ears. Carefully, he took the wisps of her hair that were sticking out and tucked them up under, before he took the chin strap and pulled it tight, snapped it closed.

The whole time, she looked at him, felt his touch, felt some trembling begin within her.

He put his own helmet on, then mounted the motorcycle first, swinging his long legs over it, kicking down hard to start it. She saw the muscle in his leg ripple when he did that, and tremble deepened into anticipation.

He patted the seat behind him, and she climbed on, suddenly shy about what to do with her hands, her legs.

She settled for holding the back of the seat; her heels found the passenger bar.

But he turned and over his shoulder gave a small shake of his head. He reached back with one arm and pulled her right into him, so her chest was flattened against the black leather of his broad back, her thighs making an intimate V around his rear end. Lastly, he took her arms and guided them around his waist.

"Hold on tight," he ordered.

He gave the big machine a bit of juice, and the deep, rumbling purr it was making turned to a roar, and it surged smoothly forward. One leg down, he made a smooth circle to turn around, then put his leg up and gave the bike more gas.

They headed out on the highway, a paved back road that twisted and turned through the abundant beauty of redwood country.

But the truth was the scenery was lost on Holly.

Her cheek on his back, her arms around him, her body finding the rhythm of the bike so that she leaned when he leaned and came back to center when he did, was exhilarating, like learning the steps of a dance. He blocked the worst of the wind, but still she could feel it on her cheeks, trying to tug her hair out from under the helmet.

She felt alive. And free. And on fire.

She laughed into the wind, held tighter with her arms and called, "Faster."

He glanced back at her, grinned and opened the bike up. They surged around twists in the road, soared through dips and hollows. She thought that this, not being in an airplane, was probably as close as human beings could ever come to knowing what it was to fly.

It seemed too soon when he came to the little country inn that he had promised, though when the bike stopped she realized her hands were cold, and so were her cheeks.

She slid off and blew on her hands.

Seeing that, he came and took them in his. "Next time I'll remember gloves," he said.

Next time. Two small words. Beautiful words.

"Did you like it?" he asked.

"Like it?" The words seemed so inadequate. "It gives new meaning to the word freedom."

He looked at her thoughtfully, smiled a small smile. "Exactly." He held her hands flat between the two of his, until she could feel the blood flowing back into her fingertips. Then he tucked her hand in his and escorted her into the restaurant.

It was a small, cozy place, with lace at the French-paned windows and a mismatch of antique chairs and tables.

They were led to a quiet table in the corner, where a candle flickered in a glass globe.

"Good," she said. "Darkness. You can't see my hair."

He laughed, ran a hand through his own hair. "The price of freedom. But you should see your cheeks. You're blushing like a—" he stopped, and something grew very dark in his eyes, as if it occurred to him the circumstances under which brides blushed. "A tomato," he finished insincerely.

"A tomato?" she sputtered, and then they were laughing together, and it felt so good. The way it had been before, only better. The way it had been before, only with an exciting new dimension, an exciting new possibility, shimmering on the air with their laughter.

Over a delicious dinner, he proved himself to be every bit the man she had always known he was. He was tender and funny and strong.

And to her amazement he was vulnerable.

He told her about the first time he'd been locked up. Just a little boy who'd stolen a bicycle. The policeman, wanting to throw a scare into him, had put him into a cell until his mom, annoyed about being disturbed at a luncheon, finally came for him.

"Funny, isn't it?" he said softly. "When I heard that door click closed, I swore that would never happen to me again. That feeling of being trapped, of being totally in someone else's power, is terrifying. But somehow having my mother's full and undivided attention made it all worthwhile. Or maybe I never got good at thinking an action through to its consequence. Maybe I'm still not that good at that."

And the way he was looking at her, she knew he was talking about this. The motorbike ride and the dinner. Had either of them thought where this was leading?

In her wildest dreams, she had.

"I've heard you say it to the boys in The Shack a million times. Think it all the way through. Right to the end."

And as soon as she said those words, it was like it was on the table between them. The need and the passion.

The way this evening was going to end.

His hand covered hers, and he lifted it to his lips and kissed it, long and slow until it felt like her blood was coming to a slow boil, and her skin would melt away from her body. Nothing had ever interested her less than dessert.

Without another word, he got up and helped her into her jacket, his hands lingering on her shoulders. He paid the check, and they left.

Night had fallen, the stars hanging in the sky, huge and bright.

"Put your hands in my jacket pockets," he said.

But she didn't. She slid her hands around him and right between the snaps on his jacket, so that her hands rested right under his rib cage and she could feel the steady rise and fall of his breath, the heat of his body.

He turned and gave her a look that was part pleasure and part pain, and then he stoked up the big bike and they headed back down the road where they had come.

Only everything was different now.

The road was only a path to somewhere else, necessary miles that had to be covered. The path ended at her cabin door, where a light left on burned softly within.

The words had dried up between them.

She took his hand to lead him up the stairs, but he pulled her into him, carefully unbuckled the helmet, slid it off her head, dropped it to the ground, and did the same to his.

His hands on either side of her face, he guided her lips to his, and tasted her with a savage hunger. One powerful leg nudged between hers, and she wantonly pressed herself into the steel of his thigh.

"Are you coming in?" she whispered breathlessly.

"Unless you're planning on doing it out here," he said. She knew what her eyes said, as they lingered on his face with hunger.

He scooped her up and went up the steps, while she kissed his chin and his chest and anything else within range of her lips.

"Give me the damn keys," he growled huskily.

Laughing as he balanced her weight and managed the door, she allowed herself to revel in his strength, in the feel of steel-hard muscles supporting her thighs and shoulders.

He finally kicked the door open, went unerringly to her bedroom door, partly ajar, and shoved it open, too.

He dropped her on the pure white bedspread, looked down at her while she gazed helplessly up at him, unaware how sensual was the contrast between her pristine white eyelet spread and the black leather jacket she still wore.

He was everything men had ever been. He was a hunter and a warrior and a pirate and a king. His breath was rising raggedly, swelling his chest. He gazed at her with tenderness and wanting and power and passion.

He was every man who had ever come to a woman and laid his weapons and his power at her feet.

She opened her arms and he came to her, holding the majority of his weight off of her, while he tasted the softness of her eyelids, the tip of her nose. He nipped the lobes of her ears and ran his tongue, like a sword of intense fire, down the tender curve of her neck.

His questing mouth was like an exquisite form of torture.

"Blake." She whispered his name, and heard the shocking urgency in her voice. She wanted to beg him to kiss deeper, hold harder, move faster.

He put a finger to her lips, silencing her, and continued his slow, torturing nuzzle, his lips on her breastbone, his eyes suddenly intent on her face.

His hand slid underneath the opened black leather jacket to the button of her jade green blouse, and he stopped, gazed at her, teased the button with his fingertip, a small smile on his lips, the question in his eyes.

"Yes," she said hoarsely in answer.

He flicked the button free, his eyes still on her face, touched the pale skin beneath it, lightly, ever so lightly, with the tip of his finger. And then he dropped his head to where his finger had been, and touched the silken flesh between her breasts with his lips, and then his tongue.

With a flame leaping in his eyes that he leashed in the unhurried touch of his hands, he slowly undid each of the buttons on her blouse, anointing with his lips the tender flesh he exposed before moving on to the next button.

Holly had never felt such exquisite agony as this slow, painstaking uncovering.

The blouse was undone. Never taking his eyes from her face, he placed his hands on either side of the placket, and tugged it gently open. Finally, when she thought she might scream with wanting and frustration, his gaze dropped, heated, to what he had uncovered.

He tugged the sleeves over her shoulders, pulling both the blouse and the jacket free, dropped them carelessly to the floor. He shrugged off his own jacket before he ran a fingertip over the lacy cup that held one breast and then the other, and then he touched the place where her tender flesh mounded over the top of her bra.

She was gasping at each new path of fire his fingertips forged over her skin, but he would not be rushed in his lazy exploration of her. He could not know this was her first time, and yet he seemed determined to make it an experience that would last forever, be unforgettable.

He bent over her and ran his hot tongue down a line from just below her breast to her belly button. He stopped there for a moment, kissed, probed that slight hollow with the spear of his tongue, then kissed a tantalizing line at the waistband of her jeans.

He paused again at the snap, looking at her, his eyes dark with wicked amusement at her longing, but his own ragged breathing revealing he was not nearly as calm or in control as his slow exploration of her might have her believe.

His hand rested, heavy and warm, on the fabric below that snap. When she thrust herself into the hand, he smiled, flicked the snap open, eased the zipper down, ran fingers over lace, like a pianist doing feather-light scales. And then, while his mouth breathed fire onto that same lace, his hands took purchase of the fabric at her hips and tugged.

The jeans slid off her and hit the floor.

"Your turn," he said huskily, drawing a circle on the skin of her inner thigh with his fingertips.

"My turn?" she said. She didn't even know she got a turn, let alone what she was supposed to do with it.

"Take my shirt off, Holly."

He leaned over her, and stilled her fingers when she shoved the first button through the hole and made her way to the second one.

"Slowly," he commanded her, even though his arms trembled from holding himself above her.

She was trembling now, too, as her fingers found each button, as she did as he had done and kissed the flesh that she exposed, touched it with her lips and her tongue, felt the exquisite warmth radiating from him, felt the muscles of his chest, the corded muscles on his belly.

She wondered if it was possible to faint with wanting.

The buttons finally all open, she drew the shirt away from him, and touched and kissed, and touched some more. She found the hard nub of his nipple, touched it, squirmed beneath him so that she could reach it with her tongue. She circled it, flicked it, and then gently nipped it.

For the first time, he groaned. And then he knelt over her, his blue-jean clad thighs on either side of her stomach, and shrugged off his shirt.

She stared at him, her senses feasting on the masculine perfection of his body. But when she reached to touch him again, he caught her hands and guided them to the snap on his jeans.

She undid the snap. Her fingers trembling, she touched his zipper, eased it down, felt the heat and hardness beneath her fingertips. He shoved the blue jeans down, moved to the edge of the bed and tore them off his legs.

He stretched out on the bed beside her, unselfconscious in only navy blue jockey shorts, the white band brilliant against the faint copper tones of his skin. She thought he looked like a swimmer—broad shoulders, flat stomach, narrow hips, long, strong legs.

He was on his stomach, propped up on his elbow. He reached out with his free arm, his hand flat, and caressed her skin with his palm, from her breastbone to her belly button. She shuddered, his hand the quake, her body the aftershock.

"I love the way you feel," he whispered. "Soft. Sacred."

Sacred. That was the word, exactly, that described what was happening between them, the unfolding of this great and powerful intimacy that had celebrated man and woman since the beginning of time.

Lost in that power, Holly Lamb became everything she had never been.

She had been shy, now she became bold.

She had been cautious, now she became adventurous.

She had never taken risks, and now she felt prepared to risk it all.

"Blake," she whispered, her voice ragged with need, her patience spent. "I want you. I want you now."

He smiled, lifted his weight on top of her and settled it. And then he kissed her. There was nothing sweet in his kisses now. The tender exploratory nature of them melted like sugar into hot water.

The mouth that claimed hers was hard, commanding, urgent.

His hands on her body became less tender, and more possessive, a man claiming what was his, claiming what was being offered to him, saying a resounding yes to the gifts of the universe and the mysteries of life.

He undid the clasp on her bra and watched, his eyes dark, his mouth unsmiling, as her breasts sprang free. And then his lips and tongue rained fire on her, nipping, kissing, licking, tenderness giving way to raw need.

She arched into the fiery hail of his lips. A sound came from her own lips, a sound that welled up from within her. It was a sound of need and desire and pleasure and pain, those things so related that they were no longer separate.

He slid her lace panties over a slender hip and slid down the silken length of an unresisting thigh. She wriggled them the rest of the way down and tossed them on the floor with her toe.

She was naked beneath the man she loved.

His hand caressed the soft flesh of her inner thigh, tangled in the curl of her hair, stroked the place between her legs that had turned silky with moisture.

She was crazed. Her nails bit into his shoulders, and she pulled herself hard against him, loving the scrape of her breasts against the springy hair on his chest. Her body took on a life of its own, writhing, bucking, begging.

And then the last barrier, his undershorts, were gone. He paused for just a moment, protecting her, and then holding himself up again over her body, his elbows locked and his arms trembling, he nudged her legs apart and slipped inside her.

She was taken aback by the sudden pain, and she saw him stop, saw the shock on his face as he registered what had just happened.

He looked, for an awful second, like he was going to withdraw from her.

"This is what I want," she said, her voice fierce. "It's my choice."

He lowered himself from his elbows, gathered her to him, whispered in her ear that she was beautiful, and then, gently, he pushed and pierced the silken thread of her innocence.

When she cried out, he stopped, brushed the hair from her eyes, kissed her cheeks, and then slowly, thrust again.

Like that, the pain was gone, and she was lifted up to a different plane. A wild throbbing began at her core, and instead of retreating from him, she met him. She wrapped her arms tighter around his neck, and found her legs wrapping themselves around the hard curves of his waist.

They rode the crashing waves in perfect unison, until they crested.

An explosion went off inside of her, tiny like the first small pop of a firecracker on the Fourth of July. But the one that followed was more intense, and then came another, until they were coming so rapidly, one on top of the other, each explosion more powerful than the last, until with an exultant cry of fulfillment, she went limp in his arms.

When she dared open her eyes, he was staring at her with absolute and utter amazement. His smile was slow and sexy and warm, as he brushed the sweat-drenched hair from her forehead.

He gathered her to him and rocked her, as her joyous tears began to fall.