Reckless Page 8

  She repeated the procedure several times until the burn was covered with the cool, moist leaves. The incident had jolted him violently back into reality, and Jake found himself watching her small, efficient hands moving on his thigh, so close to his briefs. As she leaned over him, her blouse revealed a fulsome display of cleavage, creamy smooth flesh that invited a man to open his mouth wide and taste...

  No. If he started fantasizing, there wasn’t much between them to hide his reaction. He focused on a pair of wrens quarreling in a tree beyond the screen door.

  “There,” she said. “Is that better?”

  Jake raised his eyes. She was kneeling in front of him, her braid tumbling down over one breast. The blouse had slipped to one side and her shoulder was gorgeous—satinskinned and round and smooth. She seemed completely unaware of the provocative pose or how seductive she looked. “Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “You need to sit there for a minute and let the plant take the heat out of the burn. I’ll get you another cup of coffee if you like.” She stood and gave him a wicked smile. “And maybe a towel to wrap around your waist.”

  He looked down at his briefs. “My swimming trunks are a lot smaller than this.” He grinned. “It’s up to you.”

  A touch of color pinkened her cheeks. “I’ll bring you a towel.”

  Jake laughed. “Whatever makes you comfortable, Doc.”

  Chapter 7

  Ramona carried the aloe plant back to its sunny spot in the living room, then went to the bathroom for a towel.

  Sex sex sex sex sex.

  Jake Forrest was sex personified. It emanated from his skin like a scent, danced in his eyes, whispered through his voice. It was in the lazy, easy way he moved, in the careless toss of his head, in the way he touched things. He seemed particularly sensitive to the texture of things. Ordinary things. He’d fingered the cloth of the napkin and rubbed a thumb over the rough finish of the earthenware mug she’d given him. He’d put both hands on her dog and opened his hand as if to feel the fur on every inch of his skin.

  Or was she just projecting?

  She turned on the cold water and splashed her face repeatedly. She was a doctor. She had treated plenty of men—plenty of gorgeous, sexy men—and had never had a single moment of trouble separating her professional and personal responses.

  But it had taken every shred of her self-control to treat Jake’s burn. It had to be on his thigh. Coffee spills usually were. And he was right—he was wearing more than most bathing suits.

  As if her libido cared. It didn’t seem to put much trust in logic.

  Ramona plunged her face in the water, gasping at the cold. It didn’t help. She couldn’t seem to dislodge the picture of his sex, cradled between his thighs in a harness of soft cotton. Her fingers tingled with the lingering need to weigh that flesh in her hands. She was thirty-six years old and never in her life had she felt quite such a surge of pure, questing, curious—well, need.

  Over and over she washed her face in the ice-cold water. It finally began to help. Out of the cupboard she took the biggest bath sheet she could find—appropriately bright red for danger—and took it back into the kitchen.

  At the threshold, she paused. Jake sat by the open back door, his face in his hands. Or rather, on his knuckles, which were white with the tension in his fingers. Scatters of black hair spilled over his hands, hiding his expression, but his posture screamed of both resistance and pain—and she doubted very much that it was the burn causing him that much anguish.

  She had not questioned his appearance at her door this morning. He wore that vaguely ragged look of a bad night. The hollows had come back to his face, and he hadn’t shaved. Although he flirted and teased and gave the impression of a friendly visit, she sensed he just needed her.

  She didn’t question that. It was something she had grown used to over the years—people came to her when they hurt. She trusted completely her ability to soothe them. It was something she’d always known how to do, the way some people made perfect bread or sewed wonderful clothes or, like Jake’s brother, Tyler, could see the way wood should be cut or carved even before the bark came off a log.

  And she had seen that Jake was in the grip of a panic attack seconds before he choked and floundered and burned himself. She’d gone instinctively to the sink to get him a glass of water.

  Now she eyed the line of his shoulders, rigid and hard, and the weary set of his head, and knew the sleeping pills had not done him any good at all. If anything, they’d made matters worse by removing the urgent need to confront his demons.

  Making no sound in her bare feet, she moved into the room. He did not look up. Remembering his earlier reaction to her awakening him in the office, she started humming as she approached him. He shifted, but didn’t immediately look at her. She suspected he was not happy about being caught in such a vulnerable pose.

  Gently, she rounded him and put the towel around his waist. “It’s for me, okay?” she said lightly. Standing behind him, she put her hands on his shoulders.

  He tensed. Ramona used her thumbs on the pressure points in his neck. “Relax a little, okay? I can see you had a bad night. And I’m good at this.”

  She had good hands, something else she trusted about herself. They were strong and they could give at least momentary peace. As she worked on the knotted places in his muscles, she hummed a little ballad.

  Slowly, he began to relax. Once, she pressed a spot made sore by all the tension, and he groaned.

  “Too hard?” she asked.

  “No. Just right.”

  Golden morning light fell over his dark hair and gilded his strong-looking arms and caught in the dark hair on his legs below the towel. Ramona kneaded his shoulders and neck with expertise and breathed deeply of his exotic scent. She mused about the nature of pheromones, the scent-calls men and women put out for one another, and wondered if Jake had an unusually powerful scent. It would account for a lot.

  After a while, he reached up and caught her hand. “That helped. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  His hand engulfed hers. She started to pull away, but he didn’t let her. Instead, he pulled her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her palm.

  A bolt of arousal shot from the center of her hand to her thighs, and Ramona felt her hips melt. His mouth was warm and she could sense the heat just beyond. Against her fingertips, his prickly jaw seemed terribly fragile. Without conscious thought, she stroked the bones that formed his extraordinary face.

  He raised his eyes and Ramona felt herself snared in the captivating intensity of his jewel-like blue gaze. With one hand on his shoulder, the other caught close in his against his cheek, she simply let herself fall.

  He was unimaginably handsome. No man who looked like this had ever given her a second glance, but in Jake’s eyes she saw a hunger mixed with that grave soberness that always seemed to haunt them.

  “I dreamed about you last night,” he said, and his mouth moved against her life line.

  She couldn’t quite remember how to breathe. “What kind of dream?”

  “I thought you were in my bed when I woke up.” He pressed a kiss to her inner wrist, oh so gently. “I was very disappointed when you weren’t.”

  Against the rush of images his words evoked, Ramona closed her eyes. But it only made her other senses more acute, and she felt his mouth, lush and skillful, moving over her hand. It touched her wrist and thumb and lingered on each fleshy rise below her fingers. Tinglings of desire sped up her veins until Ramona was sure her body was glowing a rosy red.

  Impossible she should feel so instantly, fiercely, ready to make love to him, right here in the kitchen, when all he had done was kiss her hand, but there it was. She opened her eyes to let in the sight of him and could not resist letting her fingers stray over his cheekbone and the fragile skin at his temple.

  “I’m not your type,” she said.

  “I know.”

  But he didn’t look away. Instead
, his free hand lit upon her waist and restlessly skimmed up to her ribs, then back down and up again, going even higher until his thumb brushed the underside of her breast. Ramona stilled, her heart thundering in her chest, and she suddenly remembered the sight of his long, elegant, questing fingers hungrily kneading the breast of a girl in a secluded hallway many years ago. A pulse leaped to life low in her belly, and she heard a soft, longing sigh escape her throat.

  His hand slid back down to her waist, and he let go the hand he held against his face. Ramona, lost in the erotic shocks of the past few moments, felt a blush rising over her chest, up her face. That sigh had given her away. How...?

  Jake didn’t move away. He simply stared up at her, a peculiar intensity lending his eyes an electric vividness that seemed almost unreal. There was no teasing there, no glittering amusement, only a fierce solemnity—and yes, a hunger as bewildering and powerful as her own. He shifted so he could pull her into the angle between his thighs, then put both hands on her waist, spreading his fingers as if to absorb the sensation of her body into every cell of his hands.

  Waiting, Ramona felt the air in the room grow thick, thick with unspoken needs and wishes and long-buried fantasies and dreams. With a sense of wonder, she stroked his high, intelligent forehead and the thick black line of his brows.

  When his hands at last began to move over her chest, Ramona knew she ought to be alarmed. Maybe even uncomfortable. When a man touched a woman’s breast for the first time, it seemed he ought to be kissing her when he did it.

  But Jake didn’t kiss her. He simply skimmed upward over her tummy, his hands rumpling the fabric of her blouse, then over her ribs, and finally, finally, covered her breasts. Bright with passion, his eyes embraced hers as he did it, and Ramona could not look away, even knowing that he’d see how much he affected her.

  He touched her breasts the way he’d touched everything else, as if he was extraordinarily aware of each and every nuance. His fingers stroked her nipples, curled around the curves, lifted her flesh to gauge the weight and fit. Each small movement sent new waves of awareness and desire through her.

  Nor was Jake unaffected. His breath came unevenly, and when he lowered his gaze to look at what his fingers touched, he made a low, soft sound that was almost a growl of yearning. She touched his cheeks, the edges of his jaw and the fan of lines around his eyes. And when her knees would no longer hold her, she swayed forward and pressed a kiss to his brow.

  His mouth grazed the upper swell of her breast, and he moved his hands to pull her close against him, pressing his face into the hollow of her throat, his fingers fierce against her back. She ran her fingers through his thick, dark hair and stroked the long, corded muscles at the back of his neck.

  “I dreamed you were naked.” His voice was a quiet rasp. Moving his mouth in tiny kisses along the curve of her shoulder, he murmured, “I dreamed of your breasts and belly, all soft and round next to me.”

  Ramona found herself kissing his silky crown and cradled his head against her breasts. A wave of something much too deep and hungry washed through her. Dangerous. Dangerous to care too much about a man who was so lost.

  This was too much, too fast, and she couldn’t let herself just fall into bed with him. Gently, she pulled away. “Jake...” she began.

  His fingers clenched on her sides. “I know. I do know.”

  With an obvious effort, he straightened, and Ramona stepped back, then away, moving toward the counter to hide her face from him and give him time to compose himself. “Do you want some more coffee?”

  “Ah, sure, I guess.” He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, his voice was utterly normal. “How long do I have to keep these leaves on here?”

  Ramona grasped at the distraction. “You can take them off now, if you like.” She poured his coffee and put it on the table, frowning as she looked at the burn. “You are not going to want to wear jeans for at least a few days.”

  “Which does present a quandary, doesn’t it?”

  She grinned. “You don’t want to walk down my driveway in your underwear?”

  “Not particularly. And I doubt you have anything in your closet that will fit.”

  “No, that’s certain. What about Tyler? He lives close by—call him and ask him to bring you some sweats or shorts.”

  Jake nodded. “Listen, I know you probably don’t trust me, and I’d understand if you didn’t think I could behave myself, but I came up here intending to ask you to go sailing with me. Would you think about it?” He held up three fingers. “I swear I won’t come on to you again.”

  Sailing. With Jake Forrest. In the sunshine and heady air of the mountains. She hesitated, aware again that he was very dangerous indeed. She had this appalling tendency to really like him, in addition to being furiously attracted. Bad combination.

  He caught her hand. “Please. I don’t know why, but you make me feel alive.”

  Ramona looked away. Of course. He needed healing, and she was the healer. Because he was a very sexual man, his visions of healing came to him in those terms. “You’d make more progress with a therapist, Jake.”

  “What?”

  With an effort, she looked at him. He dropped her hand. “You’re lost and needy and you sense that I’ll be able to offer healing. But I’m not that kind of healer. You aren’t broken physically, but wounded emotionally. A good therapist can help you more than I can.”

  “No, you don’t understand. It’s not like that.” He seemed to struggle to find the right words. “Most of the time, I feel like I’m watching a movie, you know? Like I’m by myself out in the audience, just watching. Like I can’t make contact.”

  Disassociation—a classic symptom. She nodded to let him know she understood.

  “When I’m around you, the movie goes away, and everything seems real again.” He paused. “Somehow, you’re alive and no one else really is.”

  A sensation of pain squeezed through her chest. Humbled, she said quietly, “I’ll go sailing with you.” She paused. “But you have to let me ask you one question today. One question you answer honestly.”

  “What kind of question?”

  “Any question of my choosing.”

  He said nothing for a moment, his mouth hard as he considered her request. “Deal.”

  Ramona met Tyler at the gate after he agreed to bring Jake a pair of shorts. Anyone else might have made bawdy jokes or teased lewdly, but not the serious, upright Tyler.

  Of the three brothers, Tyler was the youngest and the tallest—made into a recluse by tragedy. A widower for four years, he lived with his young son in a cabin a couple of miles up the mountain not far from Ramona and looked every inch the loner. His gilt-blond hair had grown to below his shoulder blades, and was tied back with a leather thong. “How are you, Dr. Hardy?” he asked politely, the shorts over his arm.

  “Just fine, Tyler.” She had repeatedly asked him to call her Ramona, but he stuck to titles with everyone. “You?”

  He gave her the shorts. “Very well, thank you. I got a nice commission from the Harrow House renovation—oughta keep me in peanut butter for a long time.” His narrow face lightened with a smile. “Never gonna be a rich man like my brothers, but Curtis and I get along just fine.”

  A blond head—then a second almost like it—poked out of the truck window. “Hi, Dr. Mona!” called Curtis, Tyler’s son. His cousin, Cody, one year older and not to be outdone, yelled out another greeting.

  She grinned and waved. “Are you boys being good?”

  “Yep!”

  Cody said, “My mommy and daddy will be back tomorrow. They’re bringing us presents, so we have to be good.”

  Ramona laughed. “I bet you’ll be relieved to have Lance and Tamara back. Has Cody spent the whole time with you?”

  “Pretty much—either with me or their grandma.” He gave her a slanted smile. “And speaking of Grandma, I hear she faked a sprained ankle, the meddling little busybody.”

  “She did.” It felt odd
ly uncomfortable to realize the subject of that doctor’s visit was even now inside her house. He had not wanted to see his brother for reasons Ramona decided not to plumb. She grinned up at Tyler. “You’d best beware—now that one of her boys fell to marriage, she won’t rest until she gets you all neatly wedded.”

  “She knows better with me.” He raised one eyebrow. “Besides, two can play at that game. She keeps pretending she’s too old for love and romance, but have you met Alonzo?”

  “The adobe-brick maker from Mexico?”

  Tyler nodded. “The very one.”

  “I met him at the wedding. Quite a charmer.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  Ramona chuckled. “Perfect match.”

  A loud, piercing whistle cut the air. A blue jay. Ramona looked around for it.

  “That’s Jake,” Tyler said. “He must be getting impatient for the shorts. I’ll see you.” He raised a hand in parting and climbed into the truck. Ramona watched him lean over and make sure the buckles on the seat belts were firmly fastened over the boys. She waved.

  The blue jay whistle rang out again. Ramona smiled and walked back up the drive, Manuelito tagging alongside. When it came a third time, Ramona lifted her chin and whistled back in the voice of a blackbird, which was the only birdcall she had mastered. He answered, and she whistled again.

  As she rounded the last turn in the drive, a real jay swooped by her to land on a tree near the house and called out. Jake, sitting in the sun in his red towel, whistled, and the jay answered.

  She gave him the shorts with a grin. “Not only a dog charmer, you’re a bird charmer, too.”

  A white smile cracked the darkness of his face. “I’m just a charming kind of guy. Turn around and let me get decent—that is, if you’re sure you want me decent.”

  “I’m sure.” She did as he asked him.

  “Last chance,” he said.

  She grinned to herself, but didn’t move.

  “Okay.”