MARRIAGE MATERIAL Page 8

  She opened the door, hesitated. "I'm sorry about what I said in the bar," she said.

  Lance nodded, and didn't move.

  "You're on my car. I can't go until you move."

  "I know." He lazily stood up and moved toward her. In her eyes he saw a faint flare of alarm and desire. He didn't smile this time. "I don't really want you to go just yet."

  As Lance came toward her, Tamara shrank into the space between the open door and the car, her fingers clutched tight around the top of the window. Only when he moved in close did she realize she'd been neatly trapped. She ducked her head, as if he might go away if she didn't look at him.

  "Come here, sugar," he said, and reached out to put a hand on her waist, sliding it under her jacket where it was warm. With a quick gesture, he found the belt loop on the side of her jeans and laced two fingers through it. With a steady pull, he pulled her close, but not quite in contact with him.

  "Lance!" she protested, putting her hands up to push him away. "You're just mad at me—"

  "Not at all." He found himself tasting his lips, remembering the flavor of her there, on his mouth. "I think I just want to kiss you."

  "I wish you'd stop teasing me," she said, squirming a little. She still didn't look at him.

  "Teasing? Is that what I'm doing?" Something thick settled over him, her nearness, something heavy and narcotic that blunted any sense or reason he might have had at the beginning. There was only Tamara, smelling faintly of shampoo and hard work and something sweet he couldn't quite place. "No," he said quietly, "I don't think I'm teasing."

  He slid his other hand around her, and spread both hands open on her back. She came up against him, breasts to chest, thighs to thighs, and he heard a quick intake of breath catch in her throat, but she didn't push away. Not this time.

  "You feel nice," he said, moving his hands lightly. "This is what I've been thinking of all night, Tamara, you know that? Thinking about how I could get your body next to mine, so I could feel you." Her back was long and curved and the flesh quivered ever so slightly as he caressed it, but there was resistance all through her.

  She tilted her face up. In her eyes shone fear and desire and hunger, all tangled. Her hands had stopped pushing his chest, and he felt her breath come quicker, lifting her breasts into his rib cage at heady little intervals.

  The thick sense of narcotic pleasure grew, and he let his gaze drop down to her mouth, the mouth he'd been imagining all night long, the mouth that had tasted so sweet the other night. Letting his anticipation build, he looked at the small bow on the upper lip, and the plump lower lip that jutted out ever so slightly, and let desire fill his every cell, relishing the building anticipation until it made him dizzy.

  When he could no longer bear the sight of those slightly parted lips only inches from his own, when the wish for her mouth against his was larger than the sky overhead, only then did he bend his head. Tilt his mouth. Pause, millimeters away, to let the prickles of need cover his skin while cool air mingled with the heat of their intertwined breath.

  His heart thudded in his chest in that split second. Thick washes of blood moved in his veins. He felt her thighs against his own, and the uplifted softness of her breasts and the fine quiver of muscles in her back. It was heady, rich, unbearable.

  With an outcast breath, he closed the space between them, settled his lips upon hers. Once again, it was a vivid shock, too big for a kiss.

  This time, she made a faint sound and lifted her arms around his neck, pulling him closer. Lance reacted violently, mindlessly. He yanked her hard against him, hips to hips, backed her against the car and kissed her. This time it wasn't soft or restrained. This time, she opened her mouth, inviting him into the dark cavern, and Lance plunged in, knowing he was lost as soon as he did it. She clutched his head, pulling him closer, and he pressed his whole self into her.

  The narcotic pleasure swirled and pulsed and intensified until Lance thought of nothing, past or present, but the taste of her mouth fitting so perfectly with his own. Under his hands, her body softened, and she wriggled closer, making him ache. He explored the parts of her mouth he'd been thinking of and the parts he had not thought to consider. He let his tongue dance with hers, and flitter and plunge, and she met him with exquisite timing, as if she knew what he would do, what he thought, before he did.

  He slipped his hands under her shirt in the back and touched the heat of her bare skin. She shuddered, pausing a moment as if the sensation were too rich to encompass without perfect attention.

  And then he realized he was extremely aroused. Furiously so. He nipped at her lip a little and she only tightened her fingers against his scalp. He pressed his arousal into the softness of her belly and she only moved restless against him.

  He broke away from her lips and buried his face in her neck. Such soft, soft skin. Softer than fur, softer than talcum powder, softer than anything he'd ever touched. In fierce desire, he let his hands fall and curl around her buttocks, firm and full. He sucked lightly at her neck, loving the sound of surprised, sharp pleasure she made, and the way she shivered against him. He kissed her throat.

  "Oh, sugar," he breathed. "I can't remember when I wanted a woman this bad." He heard the need rasping his voice, and didn't care. "Let me take you home."

  * * *

  Let me take you home.

  The words penetrated the haze over Tamara with a cruel, piercing shock. She froze against him, fighting the glorious sensation of his lips moving over her throat, over her chin. "No," she whispered. "Lance, no, I—"

  His mouth claimed hers once more. Rich lips, full and firm and exquisitely mobile, and so very, very hungry. It was that yearning tenderness that undid her. Expertise or passion would not have surprised her, or unnerved her.

  This sweetness did. The way he pulled her close against him suggestively, but cradled her body as if it were fragile and precious. The way he trembled faintly. The way he kissed her.

  And he felt so good. His broad hands. His mouth. The solid mass of his shoulders and his taut back and hard thighs. That solidness felt shielding and safe and she wanted never to let him go. Under her hands, his neck was hot and his hair was cool, and he made a deep, throaty noise of longing that went straight to the core of her abdomen.

  It had been so long. So long. Kissing Lance after a long day, she wanted only to be naked with him, to take the pleasure he offered so freely, and to give him rest and peace in return. Maybe if he were safely buried between her thighs, he could forget what haunted him, what made him seem so lost, what made him—

  She pushed against him. "Lance, no! This is crazy," she whispered. She shifted away, pushing a little at his shoulders. He moved his hands back to her waist and lifted his head.

  His eyes, sober and dark and hazed with desire, made her hips soften all over again. "It's supposed to be crazy," he said and touched her lower lip with just the tip of his tongue.

  Tamara shuddered. She ducked her head suddenly. "I can't do this. I can't. I'm not like you."

  Somewhere behind him, a door slammed, and he shifted quickly, smoothing her clothes. He captured one of her hands and planted a kiss to her palm. "No, you aren't. Like me."

  For some reason, that tenderness made her want to weep. Made her want to give him anything he wanted, anything he asked, just so she could make his way easier for an hour or a day, or whatever he'd let her offer.

  "Look at me, Tamara," he said.

  Struggling with the unexpectedly fierce longing, Tamara didn't move.

  "It's only a good-night kiss," he said, putting his hand under her chin to raise her face. She allowed it, but did not raise her eyes.

  He put his mouth on hers. Gently. So gently. "Good night," he said, and let her go. Without looking back, he loped off into the darkness.

  Tamara watched him go with a sinking heart. He moved like a stag, wild and free, his hair shining faintly in the lights of buildings along the way. A wild creature.

  And she was not wild or free. S
he was captured. Trapped. And the one time she'd dared to ask anything for herself, for something bigger than what life had seen fit to provide, she'd been tied and gagged so tightly, she still had trouble breathing.

  Not because of Cody—she could never regret that he was part of her life. But she would so love to travel with him, to give him a better life, to give him chances it would be very difficult to provide for him now.

  Lance could provide them.

  The thought stole in traitorously. Lance could give Cody things—education and opportunities and experiences Tamara never could. He was low-key about it, but she knew he was very wealthy, and not only by virtue of inheriting controlling interest in Forrest Construction, which had made a fortune on the upscale houses in the area, but on his own. Word was he'd sold his half of the business in Houston for a very pretty penny.

  Wearily, she got in her car and started it up. It rumbled to life instantly, and she pulled out, her thoughts troubled.

  Thinking of Lance as a money cow was wrong. If she wanted to let him know he had a son, and let him do what he thought was right, she had to do it for the right reasons.

  There was only one right reason, only one good reason: because he had a right to know he had a child in the world. Because Cody had a right to know his father.

  But would Lance be any kind of father? Could a creature that wild and free give anything to a woman or a child except momentary pleasure, fleeting joy?

  Half an hour later, after picking Cody up from his baby-sitter's house, Tamara still didn't have the answer to that question. As she carried the sleeping boy to his bed, the only thing she understood clearly was that Lance Forrest, kissing her with such hungry vulnerability, was not the same man she had believed he was all these years.

  And she had to find out who he was before anything else could be solved. Before she could trust him with the knowledge of his child.

  But that meant allowing herself to be in his company, and even more, forcing herself to try to be objective. It would mean that at some moment, he would kiss her again like he had tonight. And meant she might not resist his invitation to his bed the next time.

  Could she bear it? How could she stand to let that wanting grow? Risk wanting anything, ever again?

  In his bed, Cody sleepily turned over, and she tucked his covers over his slim shoulder. Light fell from the hallway over his small, still face, and Tamara saw his father in the clean carved lines, saw where the baby plumpness would one day whittle down and where a beard would grow. In the silky tresses, she felt the thickness that it would take on. Like his father's.

  Tenderly she kissed him. For Cody she could do anything.

  Anything.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  Lance rose early Saturday. He felt muddled and off center, not quite like himself. It didn't feel like too much drink, but he couldn't quite place the feeling, either. As he shaved, he wondered wryly if it were Tamara, if she were a drug he ought to stay away from.

  Viewed in the bright light of morning, his reaction to kissing her seemed absurd. He rinsed his razor and frowned, remembering that weird, lost, unthinking haze that had come over him. He liked kissing, and he liked Tamara, but last night had just been—

  Well … weird. That was the only word he could think of.

  But he didn't have time to dwell on it this morning. He had to go scour Red Creek for rentals. Last night, Lance had discovered that Alonzo was living in a motel. Thanks to the ski slopes within easy driving distance and the almost insane upswing of the economy lately, rents were outrageous—not easily in the reach of even a well-paid construction worker.

  Lance washed shaving cream from his face. His help this morning wasn't unselfish by any stretch. Lance had worked with adobe makers in Houston and San Antonio, and none of them had come close to the exquisite work Alonzo could do. In addition, Alonzo had the rare ability to teach his craft to others, and run a crew reliably and with good humor.

  Lance didn't want to lose him.

  Unfortunately, a dozen calls, and even the yanking of a few strings, turned up nothing. With the first snows around the corner, all the rentals in the area were locked up tight. Lance found one available property—a luxury home a half hour away that rented for three times what Alonzo made in a month.

  Finally, driven by desperation, Lance called his mother to ask about the guest house that sat on their land. She hesitated for one long moment, and then said, "Let me meet him first."

  So Lance picked up Alonzo with the vague promise that they'd look at rentals after a while, but he wanted to go by and see his mother first.

  Louise answered the door, wearing an apron over her plump curves. Flour dusted her. "Y'all come on in. I have to get these muffins out of the oven. My timer just went off." Leaving the door open, she hurried off.

  "Oh, you're in for a treat," Lance said with a grin. "She's one of the best cooks in the state."

  "Yeah?" A curious expression, half amused, half surprised, was on Alonzo's face. "I miss good food."

  "Don't tell her. She'll have you fat as a hog in two weeks flat." He gestured for Alonzo to enter. "My mother loves to cook—but even more, she likes to feed people."

  Alonzo smoothed his mustache, raising one devilish black eyebrow. "An old-fashioned woman." He winked. "I like that. You young ones, you don't know yet what's important in a woman."

  Lance thought of Tamara. For a fleeting second, he tasted her lips on his own. Then his mind snagged on the way her house had seemed so warm and comfortable and easy to be in, the night of his father's funeral. He remembered awakening, fed and soothed, in her chair, covered by a blanket she had placed over him.

  The memory gave him a strange twist in his gut. He frowned. "You might be surprised," he said to Alonzo.

  They followed Louise to the kitchen, where she was taking out a tray of enormous, steaming blueberry muffins. Lance's mouth watered instantly. "Those look good. Don't tell me you're making them for some museum tea or something."

  "No sir, they are not." She gave him her sunniest smile. "I made them for you and your friend." Putting the tray on top of the stove, she took off her oven mitt and held out a hand to Alonzo. "You must be Alonzo Chacon. I'm Louise Forrest. My boy has been singin' your praises for weeks now. I'm glad to meet you."

  Alonzo moved forward, and took the outstretched hand. With a courtly gesture, he bent over it and planted a kiss lightly to the knuckles. "They did not tell me you were so beautiful," he said.

  "Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Chacon," she said briskly, taking back her hand.

  "No flattery," Alonzo said, inclining his head with a smile. He touched his hand to his chest. "From the heart."

  To Lance's amazement, his mother blushed faintly, the color washing over the clear, smooth cheeks in a way he found touching. "Y'all sit down in the dining room and I'll bring the muffins. Lance, you grab the butter. The real butter, now."

  "I know, Mom." She didn't allow margarine to taint her bakery goods.

  He carried the ceramic butter dish to the table. "Why do we get blueberry muffins? What's the occasion?"

  "No occasion," she said airily, and Lance knew something was up. "I was hoping you might be able to help me with an errand this afternoon. The new museum curator is coming in today, and I want to be there to go over things with her."

  Lance buttered a muffin, waiting for the other shoe. "But—?" he prompted.

  "Well, I promised Mrs. Jordan I'd help her with her shopping. You know she can't drive anymore, not since that little accident last summer—"

  "Little accident, my eye." Lance snorted. "She took out three parking meters and the front window of a dry cleaner's shop."

  Alonzo's eye twinkled, but he was absorbed in his muffin.

  "Anyway," Louise continued, "she needs to go to the grocery store. I know she's fussy, but you're so patient with her, and I was hoping you might do it in my place."

  Lance shrugged. "Okay."


  Louise reached over and patted his arm. "You're such a good boy. What would I do without you?" She looked at Alonzo. "You know, when he was a child, I could always count on Lance to run any errand I needed, even when he had to ride his bike all the way down the hill."

  "Down was never the trouble. Up was the killer."

  Alonzo neatly blotted his mustache. "Delicious!" he pronounced. "I eat too much food from restaurants. And food needs a woman's hand, you know?"

  "Are you always so charming, Mr. Chacon?"

  He winked. "Yes."

  Louise chuckled and pushed the basket closer to him. "Well, it's always a pleasure to feed a man who appreciates it. Help yourself."

  Happily, Alonzo picked out another muffin. "Gracias."

  * * *

  While getting dressed Saturday morning, Tamara was appalled to find she had a hickey on her neck. A hickey! Leaning into the mirror, she touched the red mark with embarrassment and a certain heat. She hadn't even noticed that Lance had been nibbling that hard.

  Her skin showed bruises easily. Maybe he'd only been—

  She sank down to the bed, her hand over the bruise, suddenly awash in sensual memories. His mouth, moving over her neck, supping at her flesh as if he were starving. His hands down her back, on her bottom, against her ear.

  She closed her eyes. She was in so far over her head! Lance Forrest was out of her league on every imaginable level. He was gorgeous and rich and experienced. What in the world did he even find to like about her?

  With a sigh, she dug through her drawers, looking for something that might be used to cover up the mark. All she could find was a soft cotton turtleneck that was a bit too warm for the weather. It was fall, but the day was bright and sunny. In the mountains, Indian summer might mean anything from fifty to eighty degrees.

  "Mommy!" Cody said from the doorway. "Are we ever going to go?" Saturdays were the only days Tamara had to spend long hours with her son. She combined trips to the park or the hills with whatever small errands she needed to run. They often stopped to have a cup of chocolate at the diner when they were finished, and Cody loved it. He looked forward to Saturdays all week long.