Reckless Promise (4 page)

Another sliver of steak turned to mush
between her teeth.

* * *

After dinner, Alice served coffee in the
Great Room, and Mac put Operation Protect Tom into effect. Poppy
followed along with the rest of the guests, and he followed Poppy.
He watched her out of the corner of his eye while he filled two
cups with coffee.

Those two jerks she'd been playing ping pong
with tried to get her back, but he moved in between them and
maneuvered her off to a corner with only two chairs. The guy she'd
turned her back on earlier watched them, but it didn't look like
he'd get away from his wife's death grip any time this century.

So far, so good.

Alice must be blowing things all out of
proportion. The redhead might be a man magnet, but she hadn't
flirted with anyone all evening. Still, he couldn't think of a
better way to keep her away from Tom than to have her nailed down
before Tom got back. He considered it his duty to his sister.

"You're too pretty to be vacationing alone."
It might have been his imagination, but he thought she flinched.
"We'll have to make sure you're not lonely."

"Oh, I'm sure I won't be." She sipped the
coffee he'd handed her and gazed up at him through her thick fringe
of eyelashes. "There are lots of people here to do things with."
The words were as innocuous as the gaze wasn't, and he felt a rush
of heat.

After a hesitant moment, she seemed willing
to flirt with him. The evening spun out in the age-old dance of shy
words and sly glances and tentative touches. He'd have sworn only
moments had passed, but the room emptied as people drifted off the
join the evening walk or to go to their cabins.

"Any more coffee and we'll be totally wired.
How about a glass of wine?" he suggested.

"Sure." She looked around the room. "But
where?"

He led her through the door marked Private
and into the family parlor.

"But this isn't for guests," she protested.
"We shouldn't be in here."

"It's okay."

She frowned but followed him, and he
congratulated himself on separating her from the other guests as
neatly as a champion cutting horse easing a stubborn cow out of a
herd. "Sit down. I'll get some wine."

A fire crackled on the hearth, and the room
radiated warm welcome. She perched on the fat, ruby velvet sofa,
and leaned forward to smooth a hand over the bearskin rug at her
feet. He watched as he crossed the room, and his thoughts narrowed
to three: Poppy; rug; him.

He could tell himself he did this just for
Alice, but he knew he lied. "I'll be right back."

She sat gazing into the fire, her face remote
and lovely and somehow innocent, when he returned with a bottle of
his favorite pale gold Pinot Grigio and two of Alice's crystal
goblets. He detoured to turn on some music before joining her on
the sofa and pouring a glass of wine. When he handed it to her, she
sat bolt upright, looking nervous as a virgin on her first date. He
smiled, brushed her fingers with his thumb, saw her tremble.

So she felt the attraction too. He'd thought
so, from the stunned look in her eyes when they'd locked gazes
before dinner. He set his glass on the table and took her hand,
slid an arm smoothly around her shoulders. She inched away.

"Sorry." He needed to back off. "I don't
usually rush things like this."

"Lucky me. Look, I'm not interested in men
who play with married women."

"That's very good of you. Now let's try some
more conversation. We did okay over coffee." It had been a long
time since he'd used the killer smile that had been separating
women from their clothes since high school, but it came without
effort. Unfortunately, also without effect.

"What do you want to talk about now?" She
looked wary, not separated.

"You?"

"Not a good subject these days." She lowered
her gaze and drank some wine. He topped up her glass. "Why don't
you tell me about yourself?"

"I think you're the most beautiful woman I've
ever met."

She scowled at him. "My appearance is an even
worse subject at the moment." She turned the glass in her fingers.
"Why don't we talk about you?"

"I work in Denver. What do you do when you're
not vacationing?"

She flushed. "Stuff I don't want to talk
about." Her gaze went blank and she emptied her glass. "What do you
do in Denver?"

"Try to sell the family company. You have a
job?"

"No."

"Honey, I'm trying to get a conversation
going here. You keep up those unhelpful answers, and pretty soon
the only thing left is gonna be physical." He refilled her
glass.

Her expression stiffened to pure school marm.
"Physical?"

He really did try to look innocent, but what
he wanted must have shown all too clearly.

She glared at him. "Didn't anyone ever teach
you that a few polite words are not necessarily the prelude to
jumping into the nearest bed for a night
of...night...of...hot...sweaty..." Her eyes glazed.

"Sex?" He inched closer to her.

"Oh, God," she blurted, and chugged her
wine.

"Take it easy with that."

"It's only wine."

"Yeah, but you had some at dinner, too.
Alcohol hits pretty hard at high altitudes." He took her glass and
set it on the table. "Where are you from?"

"Boston."

"Sea level. You don't get any more."

She pouted.

He laughed. Temper surrounded her in an
almost visible aura. He'd swear that her hair was about to shoot
off sparks. "Let's start over, honey."

"That's Dr. Honey to you." The words ended in
a hiccup. She looked shocked. "I never say things like that."

"I didn't hear a thing. What kind of
doctor?"

"Just a Ph.D. Don't count on me if you get
sick."

"I'll make a note of that. You enjoying the
ranch, Dr. Honey?"

"No."

"No?"

"I didn't mean that." She flushed and stuck
her nose in her wine glass again. "Of course I'm enjoying it here."
She reached out to set the empty glass on the table but kept
missing. She gave up and rested it on her knee.

"Sometimes I hate myself," he said under his
breath. "And I wasn't even a Boy Scout." He removed the glass from
her hand and pulled her to her feet. "Come on, Dr. Gorgeous. You've
had enough. Actually, you've had too much. Can you walk?"

"Of course I can walk." She took an indignant
stride and tripped over a chair.

"Of course you can." He looped an arm around
her and tried not to think about all the round softness under his
hand. He took a firm grip on the narrow strip of leather that
belted her waist to keep his hand from wandering, and led her out
the door.

"Moonlight. How romantic," she murmured, and
sagged against him.

His brain went white hot. He visualized an
ice cold shower. It didn't help. He recited a few fast
multiplication tables. Better, but then she murmured in his ear and
he almost lost it. But if she wasn't drunk, she was certainly tipsy
enough to be defenseless. Therefore he would keep his hands off
her. He would. Lord, he was going to hate himself in the
morning.

A coyote's mournful, wailing yip split the
night. She froze. When a second and then a third voice joined the
chorus, she plastered herself against him, wrapping her arms around
him and burrowing against his shoulder.

"It's only coyotes," he tried to say, but her
breasts nudged against him and he stopped breathing. He closed his
arms around her and rested his cheek against her hair. The tumbling
curls feathered against his skin, soft and silky, and drowned him
in a sweet, peppery scent as fiery as their color, a scent that had
to be Poppy, not perfume. He tried not to think how long it had
been since he'd had a woman in his bed.

She wriggled closer. A dark, primitive need
to be buried in her streaked through him and involuntarily he
thrust against her. Even through all the layers of clothing, the
hint of heaven sent his head whirling.

He had to stop. The thought sizzled away to
nothing in his overheated brain, like a drop of water on a hot
skillet. He'd stop in a minute. He had to have just another
minute.

She made a whimpering little moaning sound
and nuzzled his neck. He ran his hands down her back and gripped
her bottom, filling his hands with firm roundness, lifting her
against him, damning the heavy denim that separated them.

Her fingers sank into his shoulders, and she
locked her legs around him, matching him thrust for thrust. She
turned her head to find his mouth with hers, a deep, devouring kiss
that sent his brain spinning. He staggered, caught himself, leaned
against a convenient boulder.

He was so hard it hurt, blind with her body
pressed against his bursting erection, and it had been too long, he
was too close, going over the edge, good, so good, too good. Much.
Too. Good. She twisted against him and he lost it. Oh, God, this
hadn't happened to him for twenty years. Helplessly he buried his
face in her hair and let the spasms take him.

His legs were shaking with strain when she
lifted her head from his shoulder. "Mac?"

"That would be me," he said, wondering how he
could apologize. And exactly what he should apologize for
first.

She unwound her legs and he lowered her to
the ground. "I think I'm going to be sick."

Chapter 3

Poppy slipped out of her cabin into the crisp
morning. Even though the sun hadn't yet cleared the mountains, the
air sparkled around her like champagne. She winced. Bad analogy. If
it hadn't been for wine, she wouldn't have been such an idiot last
night. She'd spent the whole night reliving every humiliating
moment.

One of the corrals loomed ahead, sturdy poles
smooth in the early morning light. She leaned against it, the wood
of the top bar cool against her throbbing head, and wished the
birds would shut up. Mac had been right about alcohol and altitude.
There couldn't be any other explanation for the way she'd behaved
after one glass of wine. Or two. Whatever.

Wine or no, she'd be a long time forgetting
the embarrassing way she'd attacked him. Nervousness, that's what
it had been. Her plans hadn't gotten any farther than getting Mac
out of Alice's clutches. Once she'd found herself alone with him,
she'd been as tense and tongue-tied as a girl on her first date,
and she'd over-reacted.

Although...she'd never been daring enough to
act out a fantasy like that before, and it had been...exciting.

But that was last night. This morning all
that was left was embarrassment. Flirting with Mac, luring him just
enough to disenchant Alice, was one thing. Actually seducing
him—she ignored the tingle that swept through her—was something
else.

She'd come here to do a job for Tom, not
indulge in carnal delight, and she'd better not forget it. From
here on, she'd be all business.

Forget about vacation.

Forget the
Some Enchanted Evening
nonsense.

Forget the cowboy.

Deep thunder rumbled through the still air
and shook the ground. She looked up and saw a herd of horses
galloping full tilt toward the corral with a cowboy close behind. A
cowboy! The horses came closer and she shot up onto the fence in
panic. She clung there, fear dissolving in admiration for the way
the cowboy rode, as if he were part of the horse, free and strong
in the dawn light.

When he came close, she saw his expression of
pure joy. And recognized Mac. Her heart plummeted.

The last horse cantered into the corral and
he pulled his mount to a stop, kneeing it into position so he could
close the gate. She dropped to the ground, sure he could see her
pulse skyrocket with his approach. He touched his hat, nudging it
so that the broad brim shaded his eyes, and looked down at her. No
smile.

If she could only get her tongue unglued,
she'd apologize.

"I owe you an apology." He tilted the hat
back and she saw that he looked as embarrassed as she was.

She blinked. "You?" Heat burned up her neck
and she knew her face turned scarlet.

"Yes. Me. There's no excuse for the way
I—"

"Please." She held up a hand. "All my fault.
I'd give anything if you'd just forget the way I—"

The crooked grin lifted the corner of his
mouth and struck an answering glint in his eyes. "Not in this
lifetime, honey. That memory will keep me warm when I'm an old, old
man."

Her face went from hot to incandescent. "I—"
She stopped, too mortified to speak.

"Call it a draw?" His grin notched toward
wicked and her knees went wobbly.

What had happened to the staid workaholic
professor who hadn't had a date in four years? He only wanted her
because of the way she looked. She hated that. And then there was
Alice. And Tom. But when Mac looked at her, her logical, sensible
self disappeared.

And she'd thought yesterday spelled
trouble.

Trouble be damned. She had a job to do and
she'd do it. Forget the rest.

He leaned down and extended a hand.

She hesitated, then reached up to shake
it.

His hand closed around her arm, big and warm
and strong. "Put your foot on mine." Puzzled, she did, and he
hauled her up to sit sidesaddle in front of him. The horse danced
under the double weight and she clutched at Mac. His arms came
around her, hard as steel, to brace her against the muscled wall of
his chest.

The horse skittered and reared, a
half-hearted lifting of its front feet. Mac's gaze never left
hers.

Everything stopped at what she saw in those
incredible silver eyes. Her heart began the slow pounding that
shook the foundations of her world, and she went soft inside, as
helpless as if her bones had melted.

Talk about bad timing. As soon as she'd vowed
to stick to business, she'd found her cowboy. And he was the bad
guy. Not fair.