Where the Heart Leads (14 page)

He drew in a rough breath. His voice was a whisper.

“Come home with me, darlin'. Stay the night.”

No, I can't, I can't! Colin…

But Colin was dead and she was alive. And going home with Rafe wouldn't really mean anything. It wouldn't be the sort of relationship she'd had with Colin. There wouldn't be any emotional commitment. It would be sex only—body pleasing body.

She made the same decision she'd made in the horse barn, but this time she was committing herself to a lot more than lunch.

“Yes.”

R
afe ditched his scabbard and pirate hat in the truck and walked Moira quickly into the warm house.

He hadn't started out the evening with the idea of bringing her home, but the heat they'd built up on the dance floor, then in the truck, had made it the only option—unless they slid down on the seat of the dually and that sexy skirt got tossed up then and there.

The foyer light came on automatically, and he flung his pirate coat over the newel post.

“My room is upstairs.”

She wound her arms around his neck, and her voice dropped to a husky whisper. “Show me the way.”

A forest fire raced through him. He lifted her off her feet, swung her around, and rained pinprick kisses on her closed eyelids, down her small, perfectly shaped nose, and across to her exotic cheekbones. He wanted to get her up the stairs
muy pronto
, but first he needed a taste of her.

Just one taste.

His lips wandered along the edge of her hairline and explored the tender skin in back of her ear. She whimpered and her eyes closed.

One taste wasn't enough.

He traced a silky eyebrow and kissed her eyelid and the curve of her cheeks, then her sweet, sweet lips. She opened her mouth to him, and he played with her tongue and, without breaking the kiss, boosted her two steps up the stairs so their faces would be on the same level.

She dropped her arms down and her hands pressed against his buttocks so his erection prodded the juncture of her legs.

Wow! They'd better make it up the stairs fast before he lost it. He managed to move her up a couple more steps. Then his hands rested on her shoulders to hold her still as his mouth moved down her throat to the neckline of her blouse, nipping and kissing all along the way.

She moaned and rotated her pelvis against him.

It was going to be a miracle if they made it to the landing.

The beads were the first thing to go. He lifted them off her neck, and they rattled down to the foyer floor. Next was the blouse, which—the hell—he couldn't get out from under that damn red sash. Growling in frustration, he pulled the elastic neck of her blouse down over her shoulders, then past her strapless bra so it rode around her waist.

A couple of deft movements later and the bra tumbled down the stairs to join the beads in the foyer.

He paused to look at her, at those sweet, soft mounds that had sent a wave of heat through him every time he thought about that evening in the museum. God, they were so perfect—vanilla cupcakes topped by ruby cherries rigid with desire.

He dipped his head to taste one, then the other as she clung to him, arching her back as if in offering. She shuddered and began taking high-pitched gasps of breath.

Damn—he still couldn't get that sash undone. The hell with it. He leaned down to tease her nipples again as his hands moved up and down her back.

She switched her head back and forth, then suddenly grasped the laces of his pirate shirt, ripped it open, and ground her breasts against his bared chest.

To hell with foreplay!

He lifted her farther up the steps, but had to stop to run his fingers over her satin-smooth shoulders and give her a hard, thorough kiss, darting his tongue into her mouth in promise of what was to come.

Her hand caressed the bulge in his pirate pants, which he suspected were made of pure spandex and would be murder to get out of.

Coming up for air to keep himself from exploding, he moved her up a few more steps and took a quick look up at the landing. Only a couple more to go. He wasn't about to try anything on the stairs without an ambulance crew standing by.

He dug his hand up under the red sash to work on the knot of the sash again, but it held, so he tried to pull the skirt out from under it. Then, when he tugged on it, the waistband stayed under the sash, parting company with the rest of the skirt. The thing was too damn fragile to live.

Only one more step to go. Moira looked around and moved up on her own.

Rafe breathed a sigh of relief and brought her against himself. They were skin on skin now. Things were getting real.

God, she was hungry. His little soldier was as hot as they get. And she wanted to run her own show.

Her hazel eyes were dark, her cheeks were painted with color, and her lips were swollen and red. He yanked once more at the sash, and finally it came free.

Now all she had on were big hoop earrings and skimpy purple panties.

He peeled down his pirate pants and got rid of his stocking boots.

She reached for his throbbing erection, but he grabbed her wrist. No way this was gonna be a solo flight. One touch and he'd be gone.

He took her down to the thick designer rug, and they came together in a frenzy, kissing and stroking and panting as if they were trying use up every breath of air in the house. Moira was a wild woman, and when he tried to hold back on her, it seemed to arouse her even more.

She pulled off her panties, spread her legs, and bumped up against him. “Now, now, now!”

He slid himself all the way into her body. She was slick and ready. Her eyes closed and her head rolled back in ecstasy.

He began a rhythmic pump, and he knew this first time wouldn't last long. He also knew there was going to be a second time tonight. Maybe a third.

Her nails raked his back, urging him to move faster.

Forget finesse. Forget timing. This was a jungle mating, hard and fast, and she was driving it. Her hips pushed up to meet his every thrust, and her inner muscles clutched at him as she raced toward her zenith. Then she stiffened, let out a thin, keening cry, and rammed herself up against him as if to join them together for eternity.

Two hard strokes more and he spiraled through the universe, then gradually came back to earth and closed his eyes. Moira was by his side and all was right with the world.

Now he knew what it was like to have his little soldier's intensity focused on him and him alone—and he liked it.

Moira opened her eyes to morning and studied the patterns of light on the ceiling.

Last night had been unbelievable. She'd been beyond talking or even thinking. All she could do was want, and all she'd wanted was for Rafe to keep his hands on her, his hard body against her, his length inside her.

She looked across the bed. He wasn't there, but a night-watch plaid robe was. She yawned and moved her shoulders, rotated her hips, and stretched her arms and legs to make sure they still worked, then looked around the room. The only information she had processed last night was that it was large and contained a king-sized bed. Now she could see that the window wall beside the bed had a wrought iron balcony hanging off it, and there was a small sitting room in an L on the other side of the room.

Three sliding doors covered the wall opposite the bed. The doors had been closed last night, but two of them were open now—the bathroom and what looked like an office. The third one was probably a clothes closet.

She sat up and started to push down the covers, then realized that her great view of the back of the ranch down to the barn through the big window meant that anyone on the tarmac would have a great view of her too.

Sticking her arms through the sleeves of the robe, she padded into the bathroom to see if she looked any different this morning. The mirror over the sink—the second sink, the one nearest to the big double shower—told her that her lips were puffy and her hair looked like she'd spent the night rolling around in the upper hall with a man who turned her into a woman she never knew she had in her.

A woman who would be so eager for him that she'd tear his shirt off him and couldn't even wait till they made it up the stairs., She closed her eyes for a second as a wave of heat suffused her, then smiled.

Rafe knew what he was doing, and he did it well.

But today was the morning after, and look at her, wearing a robe that was way too long for her and brushing her teeth with her finger.

She lapped the robe over its cloth belt to keep from tripping as she wandered back into the bedroom to look for anything—
anything
—she could wear.

Too bad there weren't any lightweight curtains around she could take off their rods and pleat into a sexy sari. But maybe she could make a toga for herself out of the sheet. Damn. If she'd known last night was going to be
the
night, she would've packed a suitcase.

“Good mornin' glory!”

Rafe came into the room with a broad smile on his face and the remains of her clothes on his arm. The skirt and her panties would be goners she knew, but Astrid's blouse, her bra, and the flamenco shoes seemed to have survived. He deposited everything on a chair across the room and came over to kiss her forehead.

He hadn't shaved yet, and he hadn't bothered with a shirt or shoes either. His jeans rode low on his hips, and he was looking at her like she was breakfast.

Excitement percolated under her skin. Even on the morning after in the bright light of day, when she should be recovering her right mind, she still wanted him. Rafe McAllister was, plain and simple, the sexiest man alive.

He leaned over and kissed the back of her neck as his hands moved around to cup her breasts. This wouldn't last, but she could enjoy it for now.

She arched back against him.

It was noon when she awakened again. Oh, damn—she hadn't contacted Astrid to tell her where she was. For all she knew, Astrid had put out a missing persons alert out on her.

She nudged Rafe awake. “I need to tell my sister I'll be home this afternoon, but my cell is in that little black purse I was carrying. Do you know if it's in that pile of clothes you brought up?”

Rafe reached out to his bed stand and handed her a phone. His voice was gravelly with sleep. “Use the landline—and I want you to stay here till Delilah comes home on Sunday.”

Moira took in a quick breath and closed her eyes for a second as the familiar spiral of heat wound through her.
Better and better.
“I'll—I'll ask Astrid to bring me some clothes.”

His mouth traced the rim of her ear. “Don't dress up on my account, darlin'.” He skimmed his hand down her shoulder and along her hip. “I like you just the way you are.”

She pulled the sheet around herself as if Astrid could see her over the phone and punched in her sister's number.

“Astrid, I know I should have called you earlier, but I'm at the ranch with Rafe.”

“Cool. I figured as much.”

“And I—I'm going to be staying another night. Could you bring me some clothes? Jeans, shirts, that sort of thing? The Mexicana outfit isn't going to cut it.”

“Sure thing. See you in about thirty minutes. Oh, and before I forget, Billie Joe Semple called this morning and asked if you had heard from Boyd Yancey, whoever he is.”

Moira's heart froze.

“He's nobody.”

Rafe turned on the dishwasher. Bacon sandwiches probably weren't Moira's idea of a nourishing breakfast, but it was actually afternoon now.

He'd take her for a tour of the house while their pork grease and white bread settled. She'd seen the master bedroom, of course, and the kitchen and family room, plus she'd had a quick glance at the library the first time she was here, but she hadn't seen the other side of the house.

She hitched up the robe again as he led her through the kitchen door into the large dining room with a long table in it, then reared back in amazement.

“Rafe, it's big enough to seat the entire road show cast of
Wicked
.

He couldn't help but grin. “Mom says it's for the inevitable day when every McAllister and Schuler in America comes to visit at the same time.”

She laughed and her eyes swept the walls. “And I like the landscapes. Are they of the ranch?”

He nodded. “One of my aunts did them. She's had a couple of New York shows.”

So far, so good. Next came the real show.

He ushered her through the wide doorway into the living room. It was a twin to the family room on the other side of the foyer, but on a lower level. And the mood of the room was unrelentingly modern, with floating-sphere standing lamps and a red leather semicircular sectional.

Then there was the mural stretched across the long wall of the room.

Moira walked along its length, as if trying to comprehend the paintings, the collages, the needlework, small sculptures, and carvings, all mounted on the stark white wall to form a cacophony of style and color. The art would have been daunting if it had been hung in a disciplined row, like in a museum, so instead, he'd crowded the individual pieces up, down, and sideways so that the wall itself became a giant work.

She backed up, bumping into the sectional, then turned to him.

He steeled himself for her reaction.

Was she going to give him some polite crap about it being unique and challenging?

She closed her eyes and shook her head, then took a deep breath.

“This is so strong, Rafe—a gift that keeps on giving. It's like finding a treasure trove—I don't know what to look at first, but I want to examine everything. Where did you get all of the artwork?” She moved up closer to peer at the painting of a woman wearing a mobcap. “Some of it looks quite old.”

He rubbed his arms in satisfaction and smiled. His little soldier had not only good taste in men, but also a good eye for art.

“Everything on that wall was created by a Schuler, back to Mom's way-back grandfather who was a travelin' portrait painter during the Revolutionary War.”

She indicated a large portrait of a guitarist he'd used to anchor one corner of the mural. “That's Travis, isn't it? Did you do it?”

“Yeah, back in my semiabstract days. I don't do portraits much anymore.”

The doorbell gonged, and Moira pulled the collar of the robe around herself. “It's probably Astrid with my clothes.”