MM03 - Saturday Mornings (11 page)

When his mouth descended on hers, she locked her teeth together. But she was no match for him. His mouth was seductive, possessive, punishing. It was not a kiss; it was a conquest.

And she surrendered. Against her will, she responded to the persuasive power of Andrew McGill.

He knew the moment she surrendered. A chuckle started deep in his chest and, as it made its way up his throat, he lifted his head and turned it loose. His laughter, rich with humor and satisfaction, filled the big barn.

“If you think that proves you're more man than Hooter, you're sadly mistaken.”

“I'm far from finished, my love.”

He took her lips again. She was embarrassed by the ease of her surrender. Every inch of her body was aware of him. His strength and power sizzled through her until she felt electrified.

Was this what it felt like to want a man, really
desire
him? Nothing in her experience had prepared her for this assault by Andrew McGill. He made her forget her aunt’s awful secret.

She clung to him, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her body close to his. The tenor of his breathing changed, and he lowered her to the hay.

Chapter Seven

Through his fog of fury, Andrew rationalized what he was doing. He told himself that he was showing her teasing was dangerous. He convinced himself that he was seducing her so that she would know precisely what happened when she enticed men.

Keeping his mouth locked on hers, he reached for her skirt. With one swift move he slid it up her legs. She sucked in her breath and a tremor ran through her. So far, so good, he thought. Let her know the consequences of her actions.

He played his hands over her legs, and suddenly all his reasons changed. Pleasure surged through him. She had the soft satiny skin that he loved so well. She had the delicious curves that made his muscles tighten and his breathing heavy. And yet, she was more than seductive curves and soft skin. She was more than a sex object in the hay. With Margaret Leigh under him, acquiescent, he felt as if he'd never loved before. She made him believe that she was his first.

That wouldn't do. He was teaching a lesson, not falling in love.

With great effort, he separated his emotions from his actions.

“Is this what you want, Margaret Leigh?”

He slipped her coat off, then slid her zipper down with the expertness born of experience, at the same time pulling her dress down to her waist. His mouth skimmed down her throat and across one shoulder.

“See how easy it is for a man, my love.”

Suddenly she stiffened. “Is this an object lesson?”

“Yes.” Andrew sat up and drew her dress back over her shoulders. She tried to twist away, but he held her fast, his face grim as he fastened her zipper. “You're no match for a man, Margaret Leigh. You're not strong enough.”

He smoothed her skirt over her legs, ignoring the way she fought against him.

“I'm not going to let you destroy yourself with some fool notion about climbing into bed with the first man who comes along.”

She drew her fist back and took a swing at him. He caught her wrist. She glared at him, panting.

“Who made you my keeper?”

“Don't think I wanted to be your knight in shining armor. Slaying the dragons you create is not my idea of a fun-filled evening.”

“Nobody asked you to slay dragons.”

“I guess it's my great nobility of character. I can't stand to see you throw yourself away on the likes of Hooter.”

“I’ll find somebody else who is willing.”

“Not tonight, you won't.”

He plucked her out of the hay with embarrassing ease. She was not a small woman, but Andrew McGill had a knack for handling her as if she were a hundred-pound weakling. She guessed it must be all that fresh country air that made him so strong.

She studied him as she took the time to regroup. Hay clung to his clothes and his hair. He looked good enough to eat, like something picked fresh from a country garden.

It was a new experience for Margaret Leigh, looking at a man and feeling warm inside. And if she thought about his kisses.... She wouldn't think about his kisses. She'd concentrate on ways to get away from him.

She was no match for his strength; that was a fact. And he was far too clever to outwit. She'd just have to make him so mad, he'd be glad to see her go.

“I suppose you're planning to tie me to your bed.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn't answer. Instead, he scooped her coat out of the hay and stood up. She'd be darned if she'd ask where he was taking her. He stalked out of the barn, bearing her like a sacrifice. The cold wind slapped her in the face, but she refused to shiver.

“It's too bad you can't keep a woman in your bed without tying her up.”

“It depends on the woman.”

This time she was the one who retreated into icy silence. She lay stoically in his arms, taking pleasure only from the knowledge that he was as disturbed as she. His muscles were rigid, and the usual fluid grace of his walk was replaced by the tight choppy gait of a man walking around land mines.

The dogs created a ruckus when they passed the kennel, but Andrew didn't speak to them this time. He marched silently on until he reached the back door of his cabin.

Balancing her in his arms, he opened his screen door and let them in.

“Welcome home.” His voice was clipped and icy as he put her down.

“I've had warmer welcomes in funeral parlors.” She angrily brushed the hay from her skirt.

“It's a warm welcome you're looking for, is it?”

Too late, she saw the gleam in his eye. He had her back in his arms before she could even think about running. She decided her best ploy would be to endure. She tipped her face up and waited for his kiss.

His laughter was quick in coming, but it wasn't a sound of mirth. It was the hollow laughter of a man wrestling with demons.

“Do you think I'm going to kiss you again, Margaret Leigh?”

“When you manhandle me, that's usually your intention.”

“Not this time, my sweet. What I'd love to do is paddle that pretty bottom of yours.”

She still had the grace to blush over the fact that a man had actually seen her bottom. To cover her discomfiture, she jutted out her chin and glared at him.

“It's mighty tempting, my pet, but I'm not in the mood for more games,” Andrew told her.

“You're the one playing games.”

“If that wasn't a game with Hooter, what was it?”

“Maybe it was love.”

“And maybe I'm the king of England.”

He picked her up again and carried her through his kitchen, through his den, and down the hallway to his bedrooms.

“No, my feisty little minx, the warm welcome I have in mind for you is a good hot bath and big hot toddy.”

A bath sounded like heaven, but Margaret Leigh wasn't about to say so.

“You can't make me bathe.”

One eyebrow quirked upward over his sizzling blue eyes. This time his chuckle was genuine.

“Would you like to bet on that, Margaret Leigh?”

“I’ll bathe, but not for you. Only because I want to.”

“Now that's my sweet little girl.”

“You arrogant pirate.”

“You say the nicest things.”

He kicked open his bedroom door and marched straight to his bed. He dropped her coat over the footboard and lowered her to the sheets, then he leaned over her.

“Now, listen carefully, Margaret Leigh. I'm tired and I'm ready for bed. You're going to get out of your clothes and take a nice relaxing bath while I make you a hot toddy. Then you're going to drink it without protest and go to bed.”

She glanced around the room. It was filled with solid furniture and leather-bound books and pieces of Indian pottery. There was a colorful Indian rug on the wooden floor.

“This is your bed.”

“Right. You'll sleep across the hall again.”

He straightened up and left the room quickly, giving her no time to argue. When he was gone she collapsed. She rolled onto her stomach and buried her head into his pillows.

That was her first mistake. His particular smell clung there, the fresh scent of wind in the pines mixed with the heady scent of leather. She sat up quickly, drawing her knees up to her chest and resting her head on them.

She was truly thankful that she'd been spared the night in Hooter's garlic embrace. Maybe she should just give up the fight and go back home.

She lay back against the pillows. In the distance she could hear Andrew banging cabinet doors and slamming around the kitchen. A sense of security stole over her, and she relaxed.

The voices came unexpectedly.
Who is my mother? I am. I am. I am.
She clenched her jaws and pressed her hands over her ears until the voices subsided; then she got out of bed and went into the bathroom.

With quick movements, she undressed and climbed into Andrew's shower. There was only one way to stop the mocking voices. And she'd find that way soon, as soon as she could get out of Andrew's prison.

o0o

Andrew stood outside the bathroom door, holding her drink and listening to the sounds of running water.
Good
. She was talking a hot shower. It would relax her.

He pushed open the door and went inside. She was silhouetted against the shower curtain. He didn't mean to linger, but he couldn't help himself. Seen through the thin layer of semitransparent plastic, her body was lovely. He leaned against the doorjamb for another look. He figured she owed him that much for all the aggravation she'd caused.

She was the most aggravating woman he'd ever met. Furthermore, he was spending time on her as if time were Texas and he owned half of it. He hadn't spent that much time with a female since Trixie, and she'd gone on to win the National Field Trial Championship. Tennessee Tiffany Trixie. She'd been a good old bird dog. One of the best.

He smiled. Bird dogs always made him smile.

“Here's your drink.”

Margaret Leigh jumped and wrapped her arms around herself.

“You're in my bathroom.”

“It's my bathroom.” He caught one side of the shower curtain and passed the drink through. “Want me to scrub your back?”

“Have you no shame?”

“None.” He jiggled the drink. “Are you going to take it, or shall I bring it in to you?”

She shut off the water and snatched the glass out of his hand. He had a sudden hindsight.

“Do you drink, Margaret Leigh?”

“What kind of question is that?”

He smiled. She didn't, and he was glad.

“Don't drink it too fast. And if you need any help getting out of the shower, just give a yell. I’ll be right outside the door.”

He let the shower curtain drop back into place, then he gathered up all her clothes and left the bathroom. He thought about hanging them in his closet, but that was too chancy. She might find them.

He walked to his bed and stuffed them under the covers. A naked woman couldn't go far.

He sat on the edge of his bed and pulled off his boots, a satisfied grin on his face. He'd solved the problem of how to keep her with him without having to sleep in the same bed, tied together.

He was only human. He didn't think he could spend another night in bed with Margaret Leigh and come out with his honor and her virginity intact. And he had no doubts whatsoever that she was a virgin.
Good grief
. Why would a pure woman be moving heaven and earth to give herself to the first man who would have her?

Tomorrow he would find out. If she wouldn't confide in him, he'd go see her Aunt Bertha. She was bound to know.

He was unbuttoning his shirt when she yelled. “What have you done with my clothes?”

Her words were carefully spaced. The toddy had done its work.

“They're safe. You'll get them back in the morning.”

“What about tonight?”

“Tonight we're going to bed and get a good night's sleep.”

“If you think I'm coming out of this bathroom without my clothes, you're mad.”

He was delighted. A woman truly bent on seduction wouldn't be worried about a man seeing her without her clothes.

“Come on out. I’ll shut my eyes.”

“I wouldn't trust you as far as I could throw you.”

“Smart woman. I wouldn't trust me, either.”

He walked to his closet and pulled out a robe. It was pink and silky, a three-year-old reminder of his affair with Joyce Laton.

Joyce had been a fine woman. His parents had harbored high hopes that he might marry her. He'd never even been close. She bored easily, and besides that, she didn't like dogs.

He opened the bathroom door a crack and held out the robe.

“What's that?”

“A robe. I think it might fit you.”

“A
woman's
robe.”

“That's right.”

“You expect me to wear something left behind by one of your floozies.”

Her fury shocked him. He had thought she'd be glad for something feminine.

“It's just a piece of clothing. She's not coming back for it.”

“How gratifying. I would hate to be rousted out of my sleep by one of your lovers looking for her clothes.”

“Dammit, Margaret Leigh—”

“Don't you start, Andrew McGill. You're the one who brought me here. Against my will, I might add.”

He pulled the robe back and shut the bathroom door. “You could show a little gratitude. Remember what I saved you from.”

“I've gone from the frying pan into the fire if you ask me.”

“If you keep shouting, you're going to wake up Christine.”

“I'm not shouting.”

Women
. Why couldn't they be as uncomplicated as dogs? He tossed the robe onto a chair and finished unbuttoning his chamois shirt. Opening the door again, he shoved it through.

“Here. This ought to cover the essentials.”

She snatched it from him and slammed the door, barely missing his hand. In a few minutes she emerged, the shirt sleeves dangling below her hands and the tail ending above the knees. He'd never known his shirt could look so sexy.

Her color was high, and she spared him only a brief glance when she marched unsteadily past.

“Don't bother to show me the way. I already know.”