The Rancher and the Redhead (7 page)

Because sooner or later, he knew he was going to be alone with Roni—with his new wife—and for the life of him, agreement or not, he didn't know how he was going to resist the temptation to kiss her again.

“Y
ou sure you don't mind about the honeymoon?”

“No, Sam.”

“Maybe we should have driven into Fort Worth for the night. It's still not too late. We could—”

“Sam?”

“Huh?”

“Put a cork in it.” Roni stepped out of her wedding pumps and pressed her aching arches to the cool kitchen floor with a soft sigh of relief. Outside, the crickets sang their night song in the sweet spring grass. “We agreed it was better to come home. She's absolutely worn-out.”

“Yeah.” Sam cuddled a drooping Jessie against his shoulder, ignoring the damp circle her drool made on his shirt. He'd discarded his jacket and tie long before, and his sun-streaked hair had returned to its usual finger-ruffled disorder. Lifting a hand, he rubbed his thumb over Roni's cheekbone. “She's not the only one who looks tuckered out.”

Roni froze under his unexpected caress, and her stomach flipped over. She forced a breathy laugh. “It's not nice to call your wife a hag.”

Sam's eyes darkened to the deep blue of a mountain lake. “You're beautiful. Surely you know that?”

Rattled beyond belief, Roni moved away from his touch, trying to find her equilibrium with another laugh. “And you've had too much champagne, cowboy. As weddings go, ours was really something, don't you think?”

“Yeah, something.”

The husky timbre of his voice and the heat in his eyes evoked a wayward memory of their bridal kiss—
the kiss,
she labeled it in her mind now—as well as a stab of panic that made her chatter nervously.

“The cake actually tasted good, but I was glad I overruled Mother about the fountain. And wasn't the music unique? But Jessie stole the show, of course.”

Sam grinned slightly. “Of course.”

“And wasn't it nice to have everyone just turn up like that?” The hem of Roni's lace dress swished about her calves as she unpinned her headpiece, then set it on the table next to her wedding bouquet. Her fingers lingered on the ivory ribbons. “Something to press into a memory book.”

“I certainly won't forget the send-off. Thanks to Krystal's enthusiasm, I think I've still got rice in my drawers.”

She smirked at him. “Ouch. That smarts.”

“A small price to pay for those wedding gifts in the back of the pickup.” His expression held a teasing twinkle. “Not a bad haul, actually.”

“Just like a man to be so materialistic.” Absently, she curled the tail of a ribbon around and around her index finger. “It makes me feel something of a fraud.”

“Aw, now, Curly...”

She looked up at him, her dark eyes wide and fathomless. “We've begun under rather false pretenses, haven't we, Sam?”

“There's nothing false about making a home together for Jessie,” he said, his voice firm. “Don't you ever forget that. You're just feeling a little whacked-out, that's all.”

“Perhaps you're right.” She reached for the drowsy child. “Here, let me get her to bed.”

“No, I'll see to her. You get comfortable. Take a hot bath or something.”

Sam carried the baby off to her room, and Roni swallowed hard.

Or something?

What did Sam expect of her tonight? More importantly, what did she expect of herself? She honestly had no idea. It was their wedding night, after all.
As if I thought I could forget!
she groaned inwardly.

Swiftly she placed her bouquet and headdress in their protective bags and tucked them into the refrigerator for safekeeping. Later, she would hang them in the attic to dry, to have as an everlasting arrangement, maybe to fix them in a romantic Victorian bell jar. Her plans ground to a halt. The way the air seemed to sizzle whenever Sam came close, and the way her heart turned over at his touch were indications that she wasn't thinking straight at all.

Desperately, she tried to remember her arguments of just a few short days before, how things could develop slowly and naturally, how they were as comfortable as a pair of well-broken-in boots. Was she so naive? How could a few words spoken in front of a preacher have changed that? And yet it appeared that they had, and she felt as though she were on a roller coaster gaining speed down the first tall hill, faster and faster to a destiny that was as unknown as it was thrilling.

And terrifying.

Heart pounding against her chest wall, Roni knew it was time to put on the brakes.
Now.
Out of sight, out of mind. Time to cool off before they made a dreadful mistake they'd only regret in the morning after emotions settled and the champagne fumes dissipated. The plan flickered to life in her brain—a bath, a plea of fatigue, tucking herself into her solitary twin bed in the safety of her new daughter's nursery. A cowardly path, perhaps, but eminently prudent, at least at the moment.

With the sound of Sam's deep voice drifting down the hall from Jessie's room, Roni hurried to the parlor where her overnight bag sat, rummaged in it for a concealing sleep shirt and her toiletries bag, then hurried toward the bathroom. She locked the door behind her with a sigh of relief, then chided herself for acting like a trembling virgin. She was a mature woman, she reminded herself sternly, able to make competent decisions, and what she wanted right now was a long, hot bath. In fact, she planned to stay in it until her skin resembled a prune, and Sam Preston was sound asleep.

The tub was a relic, scarred and stained with rust. Roni twisted the knobs, cursing and tugging at the stubborn hot water spigot until it gave and a stream of rusty water poured into the bath. The whole house needed replumbing, but at the moment, all she could do was pour in her foaming bath oil and hope for the best. Roni pulled off the blue garter Krystal had given her for luck, then stripped out of her panty hose and half-slip. She reached to unfasten her dress, and her eyes widened with dismay.

“Oh, hell!”

Straining, she could only reach the top three covered buttons of a line that ran down her spine from her nape to her hips. Her mother had helped her dress, and it had never occurred to Roni that without assistance she was trapped in her own wedding gown. And the only assistance available to her now was Sam himself.

There had to be a way. Grimacing, Roni craned her arms backward until she thought they'd pop from their sockets, but only succeeded in freeing one more button.

The bubbles in the bathtub were almost overflowing. With a sound of frustration, Roni twisted the taps off, struggling momentarily again with the hot water spigot before forcing it shut. She caught sight of a back brush hanging on a nail and tried to pry another button loose with its long handle. She nearly had it free when she heard the awful ripping sound of a seam giving way.

Panting, Roni dropped the brush and tried to assess the damage. This had been her mother's wedding dress, and now hers, and in the back of Roni's mind she'd already been planning for Jessie to wear it someday, too. There was no way she was going to ruin it out of a misguided sense of modesty. Defeated, she realized she would have to ask Sam for help.

Blowing a damp curl out of her face, Roni spoke to herself in the steamy mirror. “All right. Be casual. Nothing unusual here. Just a friend helping a friend.”

Taking a deep breath, she unlocked the door, then hesitated in the hall. Sam tiptoed out of Jessie's room a moment later, carefully pulling the door shut behind him in the way of all parents who prayed that their offspring would continue to sleep. It might have been a comical position on a man with less stature, but on Sam the attitude was watchful, protective and somehow very attractive. Roni felt her mouth go dry.

Hand on the doorknob, he looked up at her in surprise. “I thought you were in the tub.”

“I'm trying, but that spigot was being stubborn again. It's really kind of dangerous, so could you fix it soon?”

“Yeah, I've been meaning to get to that.”

“And I'm having a little trouble...” She shrugged sheepishly and pointed at her back. “I can't—that is, uh, would you?”

“Sure.” Hands on her shoulders, he turned her, then went to work on the buttons. “I swear, female garb can sure be mystifying. Who'd think a garment you can't get into or out of by yourself is a good idea?”

A woman who wants her husband to touch her.
The thought caught Roni by surprise and heated her skin. Or perhaps it was the brush of Sam's callused fingers that splayed electricity along her nerve endings. Was it her imagination, or had his progress slowed, so that he seemed to linger on the last few buttons gracing the curve of her spine? And did he realize that except for her lacy demibra, she was naked beneath the dress?

Roni's breathing accelerated, but when she went to move away Sam forestalled her by sliding a hand through the opening of the gown to rest in the indention of her waist. Startled, Roni looked over her shoulder, only to be snagged by the intensity of Sam's blue gaze. The pressure of his fingers on her bare skin increased, spreading down over the jut of her hipbone. Over her token resistance he pulled her back flush against himself.

“You're as skittish as a newborn filly, Miss Curly.”

“Sam...” Her breath clogged in her throat as his gaze fell to her mouth, and her knees went weak. “You know this isn't a good idea.”

“Why?”

“You're just curious.”

“Uh-huh.” His other hand skimmed over her shoulder, easing under her scalloped neckline to explore the tender skin stretched over her collarbone. “Aren't you?”

“No.”

“Liar. You're wondering just like I am.”

“Wondering what?”

“If that kiss was really as good as we both thought it was.”

“You're imagining things.” She licked her lips. “I—my bathwater's getting cold.”

Light flared behind his eyes and his voice was thick. “The hell with it.”

Catching her chin between his fingers, he tipped her face up and settled his mouth over hers. His lips were warm and sweet and wild, and Roni melted. But even that surrender wasn't enough for Sam. He turned her to face him, his hands pushing her shoulders against the wall, his mouth never leaving hers. He insinuated a knee between her legs, pressing her skirts in a most intimate and erotic glide of satin and lace.

Roni moaned, feeling the urgency building in him, helpless to stop it, not certain that she even wanted to. Grasping her sagging gown to her breasts, she could do nothing but hold on as sensation washed over her in waves. Overwhelmed, she parted her lips at his demand, gasping as his tongue found hers and performed nimble and intoxicating tricks, sweeping the cavern of her mouth, striking her dumb and blind at the burgeoning power of her own need.

He raised his head, peppering tiny kisses at the corner of her mouth, the curve of her jawbone. Her chest heaved with the effort to find enough oxygen to survive. “Sam, I can't...breathe.”

“Good.” His voice was muffled as he nibbled at the tender curve of her neck, riffling goose bumps down every extremity. “Neither can I.”

“It's too soon,” she gasped in growing panic. “Oh, stop! I can't think.”

“Then don't.”

His low chuckle was almost a growl, pleased and infinitely male and utterly alarming, for Roni knew instinctively it was the sound of a man claiming his mate. When he bent to possess her lips again, she latched desperately on to a handful of the hair curling at his nape and tugged hard to gain his attention.

“Sam! You're scaring me.”

He poised a mere hairbreath from her lips, his gaze dark and murky with passion. In the blink of an eye, the clouds retreated, and he looked at her, clear-eyed, with pression.

“My God, Curly, I'm sorry!”

He let her go so quickly, she almost sagged to the floor, and would have if his hands hadn't come up to steady her elbows. For an endless moment, they stared into each other's eyes, shocked and shaken by the volatility of the brief encounter.

There was nothing to say. Nothing that
could
be said. The sound of a small girl's sleepy fretting finally penetrated their bubble of bewilderment.

“You—you'd better go to her,” Roni said huskily.

“Yes.” Slowly, as if his hands were having trouble obeying his brain's commands, Sam released her and took a step back.

“I—I'll finish my bath.”

“Uh, sure.” He rubbed the back of his neck, consternation and embarrassment making his features stiff. “What we both, uh, need is a good night's rest.”

“Right.” She backed toward the bathroom, holding the dress to keep it from falling off her shoulders. The lace felt scratchy to her sensitized palms, her breasts full and itchy. “See you in the morning, then.”

“Yeah. Good night.”

Roni turned the lock on the bathroom door, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. She let her wedding dress drop, unhooked her bra, then stepped into the bathtub. The bubbles had melted into nothing but an oil slick on the surface and the water was cool, but she scarcely noticed, for her bemused brain was too busy working on a new and most startling revelation.

If truth be told, she
had
been wondering about a repeat of her wedding kiss, just as Sam said. Well, it had happened, and now she didn't have to wonder any longer. The second kiss wasn't as good as the first. No, to the detriment of any peace of mind she ever hoped to possess, she had to admit the truth.

It was even better.

* * *

Sam Preston was in big trouble, and he knew it.

A week into his second marriage, after a blistering Texas afternoon of alternately cursing and praying over the Lazy Diamond's ailing cattle truck, he was hot, tired and dirty. Not to mention raw and bloody across the knuckles from banging into the engine block. Maybe the damn thing would run a little longer. Maybe.

Sam stomped up the porch steps of the ranch house, mentally calculating the possibilities. If the truck died for good, it would practically put him out of the rodeo stock business, for there was no extra cash to replace the vehicle, and his line of credit down at the local bank was just about nil. In fact, five years after his divorce, he was only beginning to dig the ranch out of the financial morass left over from Shelly's settlement, and every setback—from a worn-out vehicle to a bull he couldn't replace—was critical.