Shooting Starr (18 page)

His fingertips stroked up and down along the taut curve of her throat. His lips didn't quite withdraw but brushed hers lightly, back and forth, and even though she could have taken that breath now, she didn't. So enthralled was she with the smooth, silky firmness of him that she forgot she needed air, forgot she couldn't see. Light enveloped her, lovely and golden.

“I suppose,” she whispered, searching for him in the light, “you did that to shut me up….”

He didn't answer, not with words. His mouth came closer. She felt its warmth, and her own softened in a smile. Her breath bathed his lips. They parted. So did hers, just as they touched.

“But I'm not…”

“Hush up.” His mouth bore down on hers, increasing its pressure with exquisite slowness while his hand cradled the sensitive underside of her chin and tenderly and almost unnoticed, lifted and turned it toward him. His tongue coming inside her mouth seemed only a natural progression of that growing pressure…a completion, not an intrusion.

Her body grew hot…her skin stung with a thousand tiny points of heat. Melting inside, trembling, she felt her neck muscles dissolve and her head slowly sink into the nest that seemed specially made for it in the hollow of his shoulder. Weak as a newborn, she almost sobbed when she felt the warm strength of his body…his arms…fold around her, trapping her arms against her sides.
Helpless.

She'd never felt so weak…so helpless. And she never wanted it to end.

W
hen he felt her begin to lose control, his instincts responded to the surrender with a surge of primitive masculine triumph. But then…she trembled. And it hit him. What he wanted from her wasn't surrender. And he didn't want her to
lose
anything, either.

Bleakly he realized he'd been feeding himself a lie all along, telling himself he only wanted to help her, to
give
her something, those things that had been taken away from her—her life, her eyesight, her sense of safety. And he did; sure he did. Only, with this terrifying revelation, he understood finally that what he really wanted to give her, in his deepest darkest secret soul, was
himself.

And even that wasn't ever going to be enough for him, because what he wanted just as much was for her to give him something back. Give him, in fact, the very things she didn't want—and was bound and determined
not
—to give. And do it willingly, joyfully, unreservedly.

He wanted her to want him. In spite of what his mother had told him, he wanted her to, yes,
need
him—at least
now and then. He wanted her to give him her burdens and let him help with the load. He didn't just want to give her back her life, he wanted her to share it with
him.

What he wanted was for her to love him.

For long, fierce moments he fought to deny it; the primitive male part of him, confident he had a victory on his hands, battling with the reasoning human being that knew damn well if he took advantage of the woman lying soft and trembling in his arms, it wouldn't be any kind of victory at all. Acceptance of that fact came as a slow chilling in his blood, passion's heat congealing into shame as he pulled away from her and looked down into her upturned face. As always the sheer loveliness of it took his breath away. This time it left a chunk of pain behind.

What were you thinking? he bitterly asked himself as he watched her eyelids flutter open and saw the silvery light in them fade like a dying ember.
It wasn't impossible enough you expect her to forgive you, now you want her to love you besides? After what you did to her? What were you thinking?

The sheer audacity of that leavened his spirits with irony, and on its yeasty bubble—temporary, he knew—it was possible for him to ease her upright and shift himself away from her. Not far, just enough to free him—temporarily—from the Siren spell of her sweet woman's scent and warm, pulsating body. Enough to allow him to say, with some degree of masculine stoicism and authority, “You're hurt. I'd best get you home.”

Caitlyn calmly nodded. She was in shock, she supposed. Shivering and cold inside, her mind a blank, barricaded against thoughts too devastating and emotions too confusing to cope with. She felt something thrust into her hands—her shoe, with the sock stuffed inside. She clutched it to her chest as C.J.'s hands came under her elbows.

“Easy now,” he murmured as he lifted her. “Just keep
your weight off that foot…. Now, put your hands on my shoulders. I'm gonna lift you up onto the bank.”

And her heart thundered and she felt her cheeks flame as he came around in front of her.
Oh, God, what must I look like? Can he see it in my face, what he's done to me?
Her hands stung where they touched his shoulders. Her stomach flip-flopped when she felt his hands on her waist. His muscles surged beneath her fingers, and her lungs gave up an involuntary gasp as he lifted her. Then she was sitting on the top of the embankment with her feet dangling over the side. Her stomach righted itself, her lungs pulled in air and her mind cleared. And she knew that she was angry.

Angry. And battered, bruised and thoroughly humiliated. She felt, in fact, very much the way she had when Tyler Webb took her virginity in the back of his father's station wagon. Not in body; what C.J. Starr had taken was something she didn't have a name for and hadn't even known she possessed.
Emotional virginity. Is there such a thing?
What was more infuriating—and confusing—was the fact that she didn't know how he'd managed to do it. She only knew he had.

She held herself rigid, seething inside, as he lifted her once more to her feet. Clutching her shoe and hopping a little to balance herself, she said coldly, “I can walk, if you'll just give me something—”

He muttered, “Don't be stupid,” and swept her up and into his arms, not gently. She heard him exhale sharply through his nose as he began to carry her through the woods, striding heavily, feet crackling in the litter of leaves and twigs.

“It'd help,” he said after a while, in a voice that seemed to come from between clenched teeth, “if you'd quit bein' so stiff. Relax a little—maybe even put your arms around my neck?”

“Oh…certainly.” With an exaggerated flourish, she lifted her arm, the one not holding her shoe, and draped it
across his shoulders. “Is this better?” she inquired politely, trying so hard not to let him hear the breathlessness. Though she didn't want it to, her hand had already strayed to the smooth, warm column of his neck, damp with sweat and taut with strain.

He grunted and hefted her, settling her closer against him. And she could feel two hearts hammering against her ribs, one from outside, one from within. She couldn't tell which was beating harder…faster. What's my excuse? she thought. He's the one doing all the work.

“It's a long way home,” she said tartly. “You're going to give yourself a heart attack.”

“Wish you'd quit worryin' about my health,” he snapped back, not breathing hard at all. “There's easier ways to carry you, you know. Would you rather I throw you over my shoulder, like the firemen do?”

The image that called to mind compelled Caitlyn to mutter, “Not especially, no.”

But her anger had begun to erode, leaving exposed the hurt she'd tried to bury beneath it. Yes, she was
hurt.
Bewildered. Why would he do such a thing—kiss her like that—and then behave as though he'd done something shameful or, worse, as if he'd done nothing at all?

The why of it tormented her like an itchy place she couldn't reach to scratch, until even the humiliation of asking didn't seem as bad as wondering. Heart pounding, nerves vibrating, she pushed the words out of herself as she'd once forced herself to jump off the high diving board, with the exercise of sheer willpower. “Tell me—” and her voice was brittle, a little too loud and artificially light “—do you always make a habit of kissing women, just out of the blue? Whenever it suits you? On a whim?”

“Just the pretty ones,” C.J. said without missing a beat.

Which was a conversation stopper if ever she'd heard one.

As she gulped back the scathing retort she'd planned,
she felt shaky still, but now with a strange new excitement. And secret, shameful pleasure.
He thinks I'm pretty?

It occurred to her that it must be a beautiful day—one of those utterly gorgeous autumn days when the sky is a brilliant, aching blue, and the breeze smells of just-cut hay, and the sun feels good on your skin. Where it touched the back of C.J.'s neck his skin felt hot and velvety, with deep solid muscle running underneath. She discovered that, without her ordering it, her fingers had begun to stroke it like the sunbaked hide of a healthy animal.

Her own skin felt hot, too, wherever he touched it: his arms across her back and under her thighs, his belly against her hip, his chest pressed to her side. She felt his muscles flexing, nerves vibrating, blood pumping through his veins. Wrestling with a powerful urge to smile, she drew in a breath and let it out in careful bits, like a miser doling out pennies, and lifted her face to the warmth.

Light stabbed her; it was as if she'd come from total darkness to look straight into the sun. She gave a cry, jerked reflexively and hid her face against C.J.'s chest.

Her cry of pain struck deep into C.J.'s heart, broke through into virgin strata where nothing had ever touched him before. Tenderness, and other emotions he couldn't name from wellsprings he hadn't known he possessed, came bubbling up through all the layers of ego and protective bravado and shook the very foundations of his masculine soul. His voice quivered with it when he mumbled, “Almost there. Hang in there, darlin'….” And he found that his lips were pressed against her hair.

Furious with himself—and, irrationally, with her—he thought, How could I have been so stupid? How could I not have known I'd fall in love with her? It seemed so obvious to him now, he wondered if everyone had seen it but him, and he felt foolish, like one of those embarrassing moments where everybody jumps out from behind the furniture and yells, “Surprise!”

Bubba and Blondie came bounding out to meet him when he turned into the yard, Bubba panting and grinning as if to say, “What took you guys so long?” and Blondie jumping up and down in giddy delight and trying her best to slobber all over Caitlyn's face, evidently thinking this was some cool new game, or maybe that Caitlyn was a pet he'd brought home for her to play with.

“
Down,
dummy,” he snarled, secretly glad to have something on which to vent his chagrin. Caitlyn was quaking in his arms, her face damp against his chest. And he could feel his arms beginning to quiver; his whole body seemed to be going weak with the need to hold her…comfort her. Growling and swearing, he danced his way through the canine welcoming committee, and on will alone, surged up the steps and across the front porch.

There was a suspenseful moment while he balanced Caitlyn on his knee, wrestled open the screen and then pirouetted himself and her through both doors. There in the cool, quiet dimness of the front hallway, he paused to catch his breath.

“You can put me down now,” she said. Her voice, muffled in his sweat-damp shirt, sounded quavery and indistinct.

“Uh-uh.” Grim-jawed, he eyed the staircase. She was right; he was going to give himself a heart attack. “Almost there,” he muttered, gathering himself for the final assault.

How, he didn't quite know, but somehow he made it to the top of the stairs and was quick-stepping down the hallway. The door to the room that had once been his was open. He swept triumphantly through it. His heart filled his throat, his legs shook and his arms felt like lead, but he managed to cross the room and deposit his burden, with a grunt of effort, on the pink bedspread decorated with little yellow butterflies.

And it was only then that he discovered she was laughing.

For a while he couldn't say anything, which was probably just as well; his thoughts and emotions weren't up to forming coherent phrases. Surprise, chagrin, bewilderment, relief, enchantment—those were only the ones he could put a name to.

He was glad she wasn't crying, glad she didn't seem to be in pain. He didn't know what could be the cause of her mirth, but watching her, he decided he didn't care what was causing it, because he'd never laid eyes on anything that gave him more joy. He realized he'd never seen her laugh, hadn't had any reason to think he would for a long, long time to come, not like this.

She lay on her back with one arm covering her eyes and the other clutching her stomach as she writhed in paroxysms of mirth that did rather resemble pain. Ah, but her laughter… It was a contagious cackle; it was howls and peals of pure delight, uninhibited as a child's.

It came to him from out of all his confusion that what he wanted more than anything in the world was to share it with her. To collapse beside her on that frothy pink bed and roll and howl and snuffle with her until, with arms around each other and bellies aching and tears flowing, the laughter began to die and become gradually…with little hiccuping, settling sighs…the beginning of something else…a discovering…a different kind of intimacy…a different kind of sharing.

Why didn't he? He didn't believe he had the right. Maybe someday he would, but not now…not yet. There were things he had to do first. Things he had to put right.

“I'm glad you think it's funny,” he said mildly, when he had his breath back.

Oh, Caitlyn thought, if only I could tell you!
Oh, C.J., I'm going to see again!

There was so much joy inside her—too much to be contained, so much that she'd had to let it out somehow or
explode. But more than anything in the world, she wanted to share the joy with someone—
No,
with
him!
Just him.

But she couldn't—not yet. There was something she had to do. Now that her vision was coming back she knew the time had come…time to set the trap for Vasily. In spite of Jake's reservations, Caitlyn knew she was the only one who could lure that evil man into the open. She was also sure that C.J., with his overdeveloped sense of responsibility, would try to keep her from doing it.

No, she couldn't let him know her eyesight was returning, but that didn't mean she wanted him to go right this minute. Her happiness was like effervescence inside her—she felt buoyant, infused with sparkling bubbles of energy, like champagne. She wanted to share her laughter and her joy with him, even if she couldn't tell him the reason for it. She wanted him to lie down with her and hold her in his arms and laugh with her and little by little merge his laughter with hers until it stopped being laughter and became…something else entirely. A different kind of sharing. The deepest, most perfect kind of sharing.

She wanted him to make love to her.

“I'm sorry.” Her laughter, already dying, came fitfully now. From behind the shield of the arm covering her eyes—she must not let him see their response to the light—she murmured, “I'm not laughing at you—really I'm not. It must be just…some kind of reaction.”
That
much, at least, was true. “You have to admit, the whole thing was pretty ridiculous, me going off in a-an emotional huff, turning my ankle and falling into a creek—”