Til Death Do Us Part (2 page)

“I come back about once a year,” he said.

“It seems your yearly visits the past few years have coincided with my trips to Virginia to visit my mother.”

“Yeah, well, I thought it best.”

“What do you mean? Are you saying that you deliberately timed your visits for when I was away?”

“Yeah.”

“But why? I don't understand.”

“My sister's been trying to play matchmaker, wanting to throw the two of us together. Don't tell me you didn't know.”

“No, I had no idea.” Joanna tensed as he tightened his hold about her waist and the bulge in his jeans pressed harder against her. She tried to scoot away from him, but had no room to maneuver.

“Elena likes you a lot,” he said. “I'm not sure why, but since she's determined to see me married off, she's been pitching you as a candidate ever since you two became friends.”

“I assure you, Mr. Blackwood, that I had no idea Elena
was trying to— Well, I could have let her know I'm not the least bit interested. She's told me all about you, and you're not the type of man I want.”

“Is that right?” He whispered the words against her ear, his warm breath fanning the loose tendrils that had escaped her ponytail.

She shivered, the motion completely involuntary. Her body ached with the start of a sweet longing that had lain dormant in her for a long time. For five years. No matter how many men she'd dated, and there had been quite a few—she had never felt any real desire—until now. And she didn't understand why; if and when she gave herself to a man, she would be the one in control. And a man like J. T. Blackwood would never relinquish his power to anyone, most certainly not a woman.

J.T. spread his big hand out across Joanna's waist, resting the tips of several fingers on her stomach. She drew in a sharp breath and squirmed against him. Why the hell didn't she sit still? J.T. thought. He was already so aroused he felt he was going to burst out of his jeans. She had to know how he was feeling. Was she taunting him?

He hated the effect Joanna had on him. He wasn't accustomed to such a strong, instant attraction, not since he'd been a teenager and got hard just smelling a girl's perfume.

And Joanna Beaumont was the last woman on earth he wanted to get all hot and bothered about. She was like the girl old John Thomas Blackwood had picked out for him to marry years ago. The girl who'd laughed in his face and told him bedding an Indian was fun and exciting, but marrying one was something she'd never do. Oh, yeah, he'd known his share of pretty, wealthy socialites over the years—women who couldn't get enough of him in bed, but were ashamed to introduce him to their friends.

As J.T. caressed her waist and stomach, Joanna told herself not to be afraid. If he tried anything, she'd shoot him. She laid her hand over his, halting his caress.

“How do you like living on the ranch?” he asked.

“I love it.” His hand beneath hers felt hard and hot and tense.

“I wasn't in favor of your renovating the bunkhouse, but Elena insisted.” J.T. threaded his fingers through hers, gripping her hand in his strong grasp.

“Did Elena tell you that we met a few months after I moved to Trinidad and in less than a year we became good friends?” He didn't respond; and he didn't release his hold on her hand. “I persuaded her to rent the unused bunkhouse to me. She said that once you'd seen what I did to it, you'd approve.”

“I've seen it,” he said. “It's very…Southwestern. You've obviously spent quite a bit of money on the place.”

His breath was warm against the top of her head. Joanna hated the way this big, dark man made her feel. It had been such a long time since she'd felt anything close to sexual desire that she had a difficult time understanding her reaction to J. T. Blackwood. But she couldn't deny that she ached and throbbed with a need she thought had died the night Lenny Plott had raped her.

“I make a very good living with my paintings. Oil and watercolor. And my charcoal and ink drawings are in great demand.” Joanna jerked on her hand, wanting desperately to free herself from his hold.

He released her hand, but kept his arm around her waist. “Yeah, I suppose you do. You're talented. I'll give you that. I've seen a couple of your paintings. The ones you gave Elena. You painted them on the Navajo reservation, didn't you?”

Joanna noticed they were moving higher into the moun
tains, the path becoming smooth near the ridge, the cottonwood trees more abundant. The sun had moved lower in the western sky. Somewhere in the distance she heard the sound of flowing water.

“You didn't grow up on the reservation, did you?” she asked and immediately felt his body tense. Had she said something wrong?

“You knew the minute you saw me, didn't you?” The words growled from his throat.

“Knew what?” she asked.

“Even before I told you I was Elena's half brother, you took one look at me and knew I wasn't a white man, that I wasn't a
bilagáana.
You even called out a Navajo greeting to me.”

“Yes, of course, I knew. Considering the part of New Mexico we're in, I assumed you were Navajo, or at least part Navajo.” Was that it? Did he resent his Native American heritage as much as Elena said he did? Did he dislike having his ancestry recognized? If so, he was certainly the exception to the rule. The Navajo she had met while living in New Mexico had all been fiercely proud of being one of the
Diné,
as they called themselves. “You should be proud of your Native American heritage.”

“So polite,” he said. “So politically correct. Not Indian or redskin or savage, but Native American.” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Such a Southern lady.”

“What gave me away?” She tried to sound teasing, hoping to defuse some of the tension radiating between them. “Couldn't have been my accent.”

“What's the real reason a Southern belle like you is living in New Mexico, roughing it?”

She thought the sound he made might have been a be
grudging chuckle, but it sounded more like a fractured grunt.

“I'm sure Elena told you that I came out here to paint. I'm fascinated by the land and by the people.”

“So you're fascinated by the noble savage, huh? Do you have a particular fascination for half-breed Navajo men?”

“You're being insulting.” Joanna resented the way he made her interest in the Navajo seem sordid and ugly. His comment tarnished her foolish dream of finding true love the way Annabelle Beaumont had done.

“For the record, I'm half Navajo and half Scotch-Irish.” He eased his arm from her waist down to her belly, his hand pushing her backward, forcing her hips deeper into his arousal.

“Stop it!” She inadvertently squirmed against him as she maneuvered her purse in front of her where she could reach inside. “Take your hands off me. I knew Elena's big brother had a reputation for being a real stud with the ladies, but I didn't think he was the type to force himself on a woman.”

“Are you kidding?” J.T.'s laughter was hard and cold. “I've never forced myself on a woman. They usually throw themselves at me.”

Joanna jerked out the 25-mm. If this brute thought he could intimidate her, then he had another thought coming. No one controlled Joanna Beaumont except Joanna Beaumont!

J.T. saw the gun in her hand. Hellfire! What did she think she was going to do, shoot him? What was wrong with her, anyway? She'd made it abundantly clear she didn't like him, that his reputation had preceded him and she'd been put off by what Elena had told her about him. But he couldn't control his arousal any more than she
seemed able to control her obvious desire for him. But if she thought he was going to force anything on her, she was crazy. He'd assumed she was as hot as he was.

The moment he'd seen her a few yards away from the stalled Jeep, J.T. had known the redhead had to be Elena's friend Joanna Beaumont. His half sister had been trying to pair him up with the Virginia debutante for the past three years. But the last thing J.T. wanted was to be part of some spoiled Southern belle's New Mexico adventure. She wouldn't be the first woman in his life to think a brief affair with a half-breed exciting.

But this trip home to the ranch was going to be a vacation. The first real vacation J.T. had had in the six years since he'd left the Secret Service and joined Sam Dundee's private security agency in Atlanta.

“Put your gun away, lady. I'm no threat to you. I like my women willing, believe me.”

“Well, I'm not willing. Not now. Not ever.” She clutched the gun tightly. “I want you to take me to the ranch house right this minute!”

“I told you when I offered you a ride that it would be a while before I went back that way.” J.T. guided Washington closer to the stream.

“And I just told you to take me back to the ranch house right now. If you're smart, you'll do what I tell you to do. After all, I have a gun and you don't.”

“Lady, is this any way to treat a man doing you a favor?”

“I don't consider your coming on to me as doing me a favor. I asked for help, not for you to…to—” she sought for the right word “—for you to proposition me.”

He snorted. “I didn't proposition you. I just asked if half-breed men fascinated you.”

“And you—you—” He had pulled her against him,
making her acutely aware of the fact that he was still very aroused. His nearness created an unnerving sexual awareness in her—the first she had experienced since the rape. And that desire frightened her. When this man, who wore a silver-and-turquoise ring identical to hers, had swept her off her feet and into his arms, her desire for him had unsettled her equilibrium.

J.T. slowed Washington to a standstill, dropped the reins and reached around the woman's body, grabbing her hand. An angry woman with a gun was dangerous. Joanna struggled against his superior strength, but in the end all her fighting did was toss both of them off the Appaloosa and onto the ground. She lost her .25 in the fall, the small handgun clanking loudly as it hit a nearby boulder.

J.T. was thankful the damned thing hadn't fired. A stray bullet could have killed either of them. Now Joanna pelted her small fists against his chest, fighting him like a wildcat, and with absolutely no rhyme or reason to her hysterical battle. No, that wasn't exactly true, J.T. acknowledged. He
was
a stranger. Despite the fact that he was Elena's brother, Joanna really didn't know him. For some absurd reason the woman assumed he was intent on ravaging her, with or without her permission.

“I'm not going to hurt you,” he said in as calm and reasonable a voice as he could muster while the two of them rolled around over the uneven terrain. “But you're going to hurt yourself if you don't stop acting like this.”

Joanna paid no heed to his warning. All she could think about was the fact that she was lying on the ground, out in the middle of nowhere, with a huge, hard man on top of her.

J.T. grabbed one of her wrists, then managed to grip the other, manacling them both in one of his hands. He pressed his body against hers, cursing himself for being
aroused. Squirming beneath him, tossing her head from side to side as she jerked her shoulders in a vain effort to free herself, Joanna glared up at him and let out a bloodcurdling scream.

In one swift move, J.T. stood, dragging the screaming redhead to her feet beside him. He released her immediately. Her breathing deep and ragged, she glowered at him, a pink flush staining her cheeks. Her eyes, such a dark green they appeared almost black in her anger, focused on him with rage as she balled her hands into fists.

J.T. lifted his arms above his head, high in the air, as a gesture of surrender. He hoped she would realize the error of her assumption and calm herself.

“What the hell happened to you?” he asked. “I apologize if anything I said insulted you or made you think I was going to attack you.”

“It wasn't—” Joanna gulped for air “—just what you said. It was what you were doing.”

“I didn't realize you hated the way I was touching you. I thought—”

“You had no right to touch me, to caress me, to press yourself against me like that!” She couldn't bring herself to look at him, to make eye contact.

“Lady, you didn't protest anything I did until I asked if you had a particular fascination for half-breeds. And then, you go crazy and brandish a gun in my face.”

He was right. She had enjoyed his touch, had gloried in the feelings of desire he created within her, even though those strong emotions had also frightened her…frightened her enough to make her threaten him.

Had she overreacted? This wouldn't be the first time. For nearly a year after the rape, she hadn't been able to bear for a man to even shake her hand. But it had been well over three years since she'd allowed a man's near
ness to scare her into acting like an idiot. Dear God, she had thought all the irrational fear was over, that she had truly put the past behind her, that she was in control. But J. T. Blackwood had shown her that she was still a rape survivor; a woman who could not trust any man.

“Maybe I did overreact,” Joanna said, then immediately qualified her admission. “I'm not saying I did, just that I might have. I don't like your type. I never have and I never will. You think women are fair game, don't you? That all you have to do is show an interest and a woman will automatically succumb to you.”

“Can you stand there and tell me that you weren't just as turned on as I was?”

Lifting her downcast eyes, she glared at him, wanting to scream, no, no, no, a thousand times no! But she knew it would be a lie. And he would know she was lying. J. T. Blackwood was a man of the world, a man who'd known a lot of women.

“Look, if it makes you feel any better, I'm not any happier about the situation than you are,” he said. “I don't want to be attracted to you. You're not my type, either.”