Slade Baron's Bride. Sandra MartonЧитать онлайн книгу.
at him with that strange expression on her face, the way she had an hour or so before.
It made him uneasy, but the uneasiness was swept aside by a hot rush of longing when she touched the tip of her tongue to her lips.
“It’s—it’s crazy. Even talking like this—”
He lay a finger lightly against her mouth. He wanted to kiss her instead but touching her was all he dared to do in this public place without losing what little remained of his control.
“I’ll get a taxi. There’s a hotel not far from here where I’ve stayed before. They know me. They’ll find us a room.”
“A taxi. And a hotel, in weather like this?” She made a little sound that might have been a laugh. “You’re very sure of yourself, Slade.”
“If I were sure of myself,” he said softly, “I wouldn’t be holding my breath while I wait for your answer.”
He could still remember the moment. The noise, all around them. The shuffle of feet and the press of bodies, as weary travelers headed for the desk, or laid claim to chairs and couches. And, in the middle of the confusion, her silence. The tilt of her head, as she looked up at him. That unreadable something, back in her eyes.
“Yes,” she said. Just that one word, but it was enough.
He had no memory of leaving the lounge, or of flagging down a taxi. He could hardly recall the ride to the hotel, he only remembered stepping through the doors, his arm hard around her waist, and telling her that he had to leave her for a moment while he made a quick stop at the drugstore in the lobby.
“No,” she said, looking up at him. “It’s not necessary.”
He remembered, too, the first shot of pleasure he’d felt at those words, knowing there’d be no barrier of latex between them…and then the surprisingly harsh jolt of anger when he realized that she took care of her own birth control needs because she had sexual relationships apart from the one she was about to have with him.
It was more than anger he felt. It was the sharp bite of primitive male possessiveness. But by then they were in the room with the door closed on the rest of the world, and he stopped thinking and reached for her.
She panicked. “No!” Her voice quavered. “I’m sorry, Slade. I can’t do this.”
He framed her face in his hands. “Just kiss me,” he whispered. “Kiss me once, and I swear, if you want to leave, I won’t try to stop you.”
She didn’t move, she just looked up at him through wide, fear-filled eyes. He thought of something he’d stumbled upon years ago, back home at Espada. A stallion had broken loose from his stall and trapped a mare. He remembered the arch of the stallion’s neck, the wild, rolling eyes. And he remembered the mare’s terror, and how that terror had suddenly become something else, once the stallion came over her.
“Lara,” he whispered. Slowly, carefully, watching the wary apprehension in her eyes, he lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her. It was difficult, holding himself in check, but he did it, brushing his lips over hers until her mouth warmed and opened beneath his.
“Slade,” she sighed, and the sound of his name on her lips made him groan.
His arms swept around her and he gathered her close. She rose toward him, looped her arms around his neck, buried her hands in his hair.
“Please,” she said, “oh please, please, please…”
And then he was carrying her to the bed, undressing her, letting down that glorious hair and doing everything he’d wanted, everything she’d wanted, and more.
The storm became a blizzard. It raged across the mountains all that day and night. And they spent all those minutes and hours in bed.
It was like a dream. Lara, in his arms. Her scent, on his skin. The warmth of her, curled against him whenever they dropped into exhausted sleep. He told himself how lucky he was, that making love with this beautiful stranger while a winter storm raged outside would be an incredible memory in years to come.
Toward dawn, something—the moan of the wind, perhaps—awakened him. Lara was asleep in the curve of his arm. He watched her and thought about how, when the storm ended, they’d go their separate ways. She lived in Atlanta, and she was an auditor. That was all she’d told him about herself. He thought, too, of the way she’d made it clear he didn’t have to worry about condoms and the angry feeling because she had a life he knew nothing about ripped through him again.
He tried to imagine her leading that life, living in a house he’d never seen, laughing with friends he didn’t know. Dating men he didn’t want to think about. Lying in arms that weren’t his.
Something tightened around his heart. He woke her with kisses, and with the touch of his hand on her breast.
“Lara,” he whispered.
Her eyes opened and she smiled sleepily. “Slade? What is it?”
What, indeed? She lived in the South, he in the Northeast. What was he going to say? That he’d fly down to see her every weekend? He didn’t see any woman every weekend. Well, yeah, he’d been known to establish relationships that lasted a couple of months, but getting involved with a woman who lived in the same city wasn’t like getting involved with one who lived hundreds of miles away.
“Leave a toothbrush here,” she’d say, “and some clothes.” And then she’d expect him to show up on Fridays instead of Saturdays, and leave on Monday instead of Sunday, and who knew? Sooner or later, maybe she’d say, “You know, I’ve been thinking that I could move up to Boston…”
“Slade?” Lara curved her hand around his stubbled jaw. “What’s the matter?” She smiled. “You look like a little boy who just found out there really isn’t a Santa Claus.”
He forced a smile to his lips and said he’d been hearing snowplows for a while now, that the roads were probably clear. And that he’d been thinking how terrific this had been and how he hoped that someday, if they could work out the details, they might find the time to get together again.
“Ah,” she said, after the barest hesitation, “yes, that sounds good.”
He wondered if he’d hurt her feelings but she lifted her mouth to his and kissed him. She touched him. She made him wild for her and he rolled her beneath him and took her again. When it was over, he lay holding her close. He thought of how much he wanted more of this, more of her. It didn’t have to be every weekend.
He smiled, brought her face to his, and gave her a slow, tender kiss.
“I don’t know your address,” he said softly, “or your phone number.”
And she smiled and stroked a lock of hair back from his eyes.
“I’ll write it all down,” she whispered, “in the morning.”
But when he awoke, in the morning, it was to sunshine, the sound of snowplows and cars and jet engines screaming overhead—and to an empty place in the bed.
Lara was gone. No note. No message. He didn’t even know her last name.
She’d run out on him while he slept, and he’d been furious. He’d tried telling himself she had no way of knowing he’d wanted more than the one night, but it didn’t take away the feeling that he’d been—well, that somehow, he’d been used.
What he did know was that what he’d felt making love to her, the sense that something special was happening, had been his imagination. Sex with a beautiful stranger, every man’s fantasy, was all it had been. And, as he’d flown home, he’d thought about how this wasn’t just going to be a great memory, it would be one hell of a story. I got snowed in in Denver, he’d say, and I ended up in bed with this incredibly hot babe for almost two days.
Except, he never told that story, not to his partners or even to his brothers. And now, all these months later,