You’ll Find Out

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

H e didn’t think about the past and gave little consideration to the future. Instead, Brig took Becca into his arms and crushed her savagely against him. He couldn’t let her vanish as quickly as she had come. His lips captured hers almost brutally, as if he could reclaim in a single kiss what had been lost to him for so long.

Becca’s knees weakened in his embrace and she wound her arms possessively around his neck to cling to him in silent desperation. She returned the fever of his kiss with the same passion she felt rising in him. Tears of joy ran unashamedly down her cheeks and lingered on her lips. He tasted the depth of her longing in the salt of her tears.

Becca didn’t resist when he lifted her from the porch and carried her inside the cabin. Instead she held him more tightly than before and wondered if she would feel the ecstasy of dying in his arms.

The room into which Brig took Becca was shadowed in darkness. There was the slight hint of an expensive blend of pipe tobacco in the air that reminded Becca of Brig’s father and her reason for seeking him out. She knew she should tell Brig about Gypsy Wind now, before things got out of hand. But she couldn’t. It felt too right being held by the man she loved. She couldn’t tear herself from his embrace.

A thin stream of moonglow pierced through the skylights and gave the room some visibility. As Becca’s eyes became adjusted to the darkness, she realized that she was in a bedroom: Brig’s bedroom.

Brig walked unerringly to the bed. He dropped Becca on a soft down comforter and let his weight fall against her body. He crushed her to him, holding her fiercely to him. His lips brushed hers in tender kisses flavored with scotch and warm with need. His hands pressed intimately against the muscles of her back and through the light jersey fabric of her dress, Becca could feel the heat of his fingertips. They sparked fires in her she had thought dead and rekindled a passion she had buried long ago.

He tasted just as she remembered and the roughness of his unshaven face reminded her of lazy mornings spent waking up in his arms, arousing desires smoldering from the night. His kisses were the sweetest pleasure she had ever known.

“Rebecca,” Brig moaned, tortured by the demons playing in his mind. “Rebecca . . . God, how many nights has it been?” His warm breath fanned her face.

“Since what?” she prodded, her breath torn from her throat.

“Since we made love?”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Too many,” she admitted. His fingers entwined in the strands of her honey-gold hair. She couldn’t read his expression in the darkness, but she could feel his unchallenged sincerity. Slowly, she touched his lips and felt the hard angle of his masculine jaw. His hand reached up and covered hers and he kissed it.

“Why did you wait to come back?” he asked.

“I don’t know . . . I was afraid, I suppose.”

“Of me?”

“No!” She tried to think, tried to explain what she felt, but she couldn’t.

“You had the right to be.” He pulled his head away from her hand, putting a little distance between them. He let go of her hand and rolled away from her. Why was she here? Why now?

“Don’t!” she cried, refusing to release him. Her arms wrapped around his back and she whispered against the back of his neck. “It was my pride.... Let’s not talk about it. Not here. Not now.”

He tried to disentangle her arms. “Rebecca. Don’t you think we should talk things through?” He tried to keep his wits about him, attempted to think logically, but he couldn’t. The feel of her breasts crushed against his back and the warmth of her arms around his chest made his blood begin to race.

“Please, Brig. Can’t we just forget . . . just for a little while?” Her heart was pounding so loudly she knew he could hear it. Her breath was barely a whisper, a small plea in the middle of a clear mountain night.

“Dear God, woman. Don’t you know how you torture me?” he asked raggedly. Becca let the air out of her lungs. He was about to deny her, again . . . she could feel it. “I wish I could forget you,” he said as if she weren’t listening. The bed sagged as he shifted again. He loomed over her in the darkness as he planted one hand on either side of her body. “Do you know what you’re asking?”

“Yes,” she said.

Cold suspicion had begun to form in his mind, but as he gazed down upon her his doubts fled. The moonlight caressed her face in its protective radiance and her eyes took on a heavenly silver-green purity that begged him to believe her. As she lay upon the bed staring trustingly at him, he knew her to be the most beautiful and beguiling woman he had ever had the misfortune to meet.

Becca couldn’t see the pain in Brig’s gray eyes, couldn’t hope to read his expression, but she knew that he was gazing down upon her, trying to find the strength to pull away again. That knowledge was a dull silver blade twisting slowly in her heart. He wanted to love her, but was denying himself.

“Why did we let it go sour?” he asked, his fists clenching in the restraint he was holding over his body. Dear God, she was beautiful. His question was rhetorical; he didn’t expect an answer.

“We made mistakes . . .”

“Like tonight?” he asked cruelly.

“Does this feel like a mistake to you, Brig?” If only she could look into his eyes. If only he would let her.

“Nothing has ever felt wrong with you,” he conceded as he lowered his head and his lips met hers in a kiss that spanned the abyss of the six lonely years separating them. The warmth of his lips filled her and she let them part to encourage more intimacy. Everything felt so right with him; it always had. As his mouth claimed hers it was as if all the doubts and fears she had furtively harbored had disappeared. He wanted her. Her heart clamored joyously and her blood began to run in heated rivulets through her veins. The love she had chained deep in the shadowy hollow of her heart became unbound in the knowledge that he wanted her. She wrapped her arms around his neck and enjoyed the comfort of his caress.

His tongue slid familiarly through her teeth, touching hers and mating with it in a passionate dance once forgotten. He explored her mouth, groaning softly in pleasure at her heated response. “I’ve missed you,” he admitted roughly, drawing his head away from hers for a moment. He brushed back the silken strands of her hair and kissed her forehead lightly before letting his lips trail down her cheeks to recapture her mouth. “Let me love you.”

The jersey dress buttoned on the shoulders. Brig’s fingers slid the pearl-like fasteners through the holes and the soft fabric parted to expose her neck and shoulders. He kissed the white column of her throat, nuzzling gently against her neck. Without thinking she tilted her head, letting her sun-streaked hair fall away from her throat and offering it to him willingly. His moist tongue pressed against her skin and he tasted the bittersweet tang of her perfume—the same scent she had worn in the past. It was a fragrance he would never forget. Once he had been with a woman who was wearing Rebecca’s fragrance; he had left that woman before the evening had begun. The perfume had evoked too many unwanted memories and destroyed any possible attraction he may have felt for the poor woman.

But tonight was different. Tonight he would drown in the gentle fragrance of wildflowers that filled his nostrils. Tonight in the dusky bedroom, the scent that clung to Rebecca’s hair fired his blood and summoned a passion in him he had thought was lost long ago. No other woman had reached him the way Rebecca had, and he had vowed that none would. No other woman had dared enrage him so dangerously. Her soft moan of pleasure encouraged him. He felt her body trembling beneath his persuasive hands.

With a gentle tug the dress slid lower on her body. Lace from a cream-colored slip partially obscured the swell of her breasts and highlighted the hollow between them. He moved over her and his mouth moistened that gentle rift.

“Brig,” she whispered, closing her eyes and letting him touch her soul. His hands slid over the silky fabric of her slip, arousing in her aching breasts a need that seemed to consume her in its fire. The satin fabric teased her nipples into hard, dark points that strained against the lace. His warm lips touched the gossamer cloth and Becca moaned her gratitude as the moist heat of his mouth covered her nipple.

Dizzy sensations of a lost past whirled in her mind. Images of a moonlit night and a cascading waterfall filled her thoughts. “I’ll always love you,” she had heard him say, but that was long ago, in a time before treachery and deceit had ripped the two of them so ruthlessly apart.

His tongue moistened the lace and his lips teased her breast through the gentle barrier of silk and satin. Slowly, he turned their bodies, pulling her over him so that her breasts would fall against him and he could take more of her into his mouth. He groaned in satisfaction when the strap of her slip slid down her shoulder and her breast became unbound. She wore no bra to encumber her, and as the rosy-tipped breast spilled from the slip, Brig captured it in his lips and let his teeth tease the engorged nipple.

“Please love me,” she gasped, praying that he understood her needs were not only physical. She wanted to relive the happiness they had shared. She needed to claim again the time when he was hers.

His hands were warm as they pressed between the slip and her ribcage. So slowly that it seemed pure agony, he pushed the fabric past her hips and onto the floor. He disposed of each piece of her clothing as if it were a useless piece of cloth, used only to impede him in his quest to claim her. When at last she was nude, lying trembling in his arms, he took her hands and guided her to the buttons of his shirt.

With whispering softness he brushed kisses over her eyelids as she opened his shirt and slid her hands under the oxford fabric. Her fingers touched him lightly at first, gently outlining each of the muscles of his chest. His groan of satisfaction as she traced each male nipple made her more bold and she slid the shirt over his shoulders, letting her fingers glide down his arms and trace each hard, lean muscle. When his shirt dropped to the floor he gripped her savagely, pushing her naked breasts against the furry mat of his chest. His lips rained liquid kisses of pulsing fire over the top of her breasts before returning to her mouth. Once more his tongue pushed insistently through her teeth to capture and stroke its feminine counterpart. Becca wanted to blend with him and break the boundary that separated his body from hers. She wanted to become one with him, to feel his heart beat in her blood. An ache, deep and primal, began to burn within her, igniting her blood until she felt it boil in her veins.

Brig had never stopped kissing her and his hands hadn’t halted their gentle, possessive exploration of her body, but he had managed to remove his pants. She didn’t know the exact moment when he had discarded his clothes, but rather became slowly conscious of the fact that he was naked, lying under her and matching her muscles with the rock-hard flesh of his own. His hands moved in slow circles over her back and his lips left none of her untouched as he caressed her.

She felt herself tremble at the familiarity of his touch, the intimacy of his skin on hers. A flush of arousal tinged her skin and she felt the warm glaze of his sweat mingling with her own.

His hand passed over her thigh and her body arched against him, pleading for more of his touch. He wrapped his arms around her and rotated both of their bodies on the comforter, so that once again he was leaning over her, looking at her eyes, misty in moonglow.

Words of love threatened to erupt from her dry throat, but before she could utter them, his knee wedged between her thighs and took her breath away in a rush of desire.

“Becca,” he moaned into the tawny length of her hair, “are you sure this is what you want . . . really sure?” All of his muscles had become rigid with the restraint he placed upon himself. Beads of sweat, tiny droplets of self-denial, formed on his upper lip as he awaited her response.

In answer, she threaded his dark hair between her fingers and pulled his head down on hers. She kissed him with the fervid desire so long repressed. Six years she had waited for him. Six years she had yearned for his caress.

He groaned in relief as he gently came to her and found that portion of her no other man had touched. She seemed to melt into him, joining him in a pulsating rhythm that they alone had explored in the past and had now rekindled in the darkness of his bedroom.

The sweet, gentle agony began to build in her as she captured every movement of his body. The fire within her burned more savagely with each persuasive stroke of love, until she felt herself erupt. When he felt her release, he exploded with a passion that shook both of them and left him drained of the frustration that had been with him for the past few weeks. He held her tightly, softly pressing his lips to her hair.

“Stay with me tonight,” he coaxed.

She sighed in contentment, warm in the cradle of his arms and the luxury of afterglow. It was moments later, when the beating of her heart had slowed, when the reality of what she had done brought her brutally back to the present. Brig’s breathing was regular, but he wasn’t asleep. When she attempted to free herself of his embrace, he tightened his grip on her, imprisoning her against him.

“Brig . . . I think we should talk,” she whispered, hoping to find the courage to bring up her reasons for seeking him out. She felt him stiffen.

“Later.”

“But there are things that I—”

“Not now, Rebecca! Let’s wait, at least until the morning.” Her resolve began to waver. She closed her eyes and tried to content herself by resting her head against his chest and listening to the steady beat of his heart.

The image of a dark horse, racing dangerously along the ocean’s shore, hoofbeats thundering against the pale sand, formed in her tired mind. Lather creamed from the horse’s shoulders and foam from the sea clung to the speeding legs. Sentimental Lady ran with the wind. The image of the horse compelled Becca—she had to tell Brig all of her secrets. He had to know about Gypsy Wind.

“Brig, we have to talk.”

“I said not now!”

“But it’s important. Remember Sentimental Lady?”

“How could I forget?” His voice was coated in contempt. He made a derisive sound in the back of his throat. “Let’s just leave this conversation until later.”

“I can’t.”

“We’ve waited for six years, Becca. One more night isn’t going to make much difference.”

“But you don’t understand—”

“And I don’t want to!” His voice was stern, his eyes flashed anger. She felt herself tense at his cutting reprimand.

“I just want to talk to you. Don’t treat me like a child. It didn’t work before, and it won’t work now,” she whispered.

His voice softened. “Look, Becca, the past couple of weeks have been a little rough. I’m only asking that you put whatever it is you want to talk about on hold—until the morning.” He knew what it was she wanted to discuss, but he was too tired to go through the argument of six years past. He didn’t want to think about her deception, nor the ensuing scandal, didn’t want to be reminded of how deep her betrayal had been. All he wanted was to hold her and remember her as she had been before all of the damned controversy. His arms bound her tightly as he tried to forget the lies and anguish. “If you really want to talk about anything right now, of course I’ll listen . . . ” Brig pressed his lips to her eyelids and he felt her begin to relax. If only he could concentrate on anything other than that last hellish race.

For the first time that night, Becca realized how much Brig had aged. The years hadn’t been kind to him, especially now, right after the death of his father. Her confidence began to waver.

“I want to talk to you about your father.”

Brig’s arms tightened around her and in the moonlight Becca could see his eyes opening to study her. “What about my father?” he asked.

Becca sighed deeply to herself, but it wasn’t a moan of contentment. It was a sigh of acceptance: Brig would never love her, never trust her. She could feel it in the firm manacle of his embrace, read it in the skepticism of his gaze. The tenderness she had once found in him was buried deeply under a mound of suspicion and bitterness. “I owe your father some money.”

No response. Her heartbeat was the only noise in the room. The seconds stretched into minutes. Finally he spoke. “Is that why you came here tonight, because of some debt to my father?”

“It was the excuse I used.”

His gray eyes held her prisoner. “Was there any other reason?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“What was it?”

“I wanted to see you, touch you . . . feel for myself that you were alive. When I first heard about the plane crash I thought you might be dead.” It was impossible to keep her voice even as she relived the nightmare of emotions that had ripped her apart. Even with his powerful arms about her, she could feel her shoulders beginning to shake.

“So you waited nearly two weeks to find me.”

“I didn’t want to intrude. I knew things would be hectic—the newspapers couldn’t leave you alone. I didn’t want to take any chance of dredging everything up again, not until I’d talked to you alone.”

“About the money?” His voice was cynical in the darkness.

“For one thing.”

“What else?”

“I needed to know that you were all right . . .”

“But there’s more to it, isn’t there?”

She nodded silently, her forehead rubbing the hairs of his chest. All of his muscles stiffened. Her voice was steady when she finally spoke. “I had to borrow the money to breed another horse.”

“So you came to the old man? What about the banks?”

“I didn’t have enough collateral—the stud fee was a fortune.”

“You could have come to me,” he offered.

“I don’t think so. You made that pretty clear six years ago.”

“People change . . .”

“Do they?” She laughed mirthlessly. “It took all of my courage to come to you now.... It would have been impossible three years ago. I didn’t even want to approach your father, but it was the only solution. Even Dean agreed, although now he’s changed his mind.”

“Your brother? He was in on this?” The softness in Brig’s voice had disappeared and was replaced by disgust. “I would have thought that by this time you would have gotten enough sense to fire that useless bum.”

“Dean was there when you weren’t,” she reminded him, a touch of anger flavoring her words.

“I wasn’t there because you shut me out.”

“You weren’t there because you chose not to be!” she retorted, shifting on the bed and trying to wiggle free of his embrace.

“After all these years, nothing’s changed, has it? You’re still willing to believe all the lies in the gossip tabloids, aren’t you?” He gave her an angry shake and his eyes blazed furiously.

“Dean was there.”

“Dean lied.”

“Dean lied and the newspapers lied?” she repeated sarcastically. “What kind of a fool do you take me for?”

“A woman who’s foolish enough not to be able to sort fact from fiction or truth from lies.”

“I didn’t come here to argue with you.”

“Then why did you come?” His thumbs slid slowly up her ribcage, outlining each delicate bone as it wrapped around her torso. “Did you come here to seduce me?”

“No!”

“No?” His fingers inched upward until they touched the underside of her breast, teasing the sensitive skin.

“I came here to explain about the money—and about Gypsy Wind.”

“The horse?”

“Yes—please, don’t touch me. I can’t think when you touch me.”

“Don’t think,” he persuaded, his lips and tongue stroking the flesh behind her ear. Her breath became ragged as much from desire as from the frustration she was beginning to feel.

“But I want you to know about the money . . . I want you to understand about Gypsy Wind . . . I want . . .”

“You want me.”

How could she deny what her body so plainly displayed? Her nipples had hardened, anticipating his soft caress, her skin quivered beneath his touch and the fire in her veins was spreading silently to every part of her body. “Oh, Brig, of course I want you,” she said. “I’ve wanted you for so long . . .”

Desire lowered his voice. “I don’t care about the money and I don’t give a damn about your horse—”

“But you will. In the morning, when you’re sober—”

“I am sober and the only thing I care about is that you’re with me. I don’t care how you got here, and I’m not all that concerned with why you came. It only matters that you’re here, with me, beside me . . . alone. Just let me love you tonight and tomorrow we’ll discuss whatever you want to.”

“I just wanted you to know why I had to see you.”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you did.” His lips touched her familiarly, softly tracing the line of her jaw, the curve of her neck. His hands gently shaped her breasts, feeling anew the silky flesh beneath his fingertips. He wasn’t hurried when his mouth descended to her nipple. It was as if the slow deliberation of the act increased its intensity and meaning. Becca turned her head and groaned into the pillow as his lips molded over her breast.

“Just love me, Brig!” she cried desperately as his hands slid leisurely down her backside to rest on her buttocks.

“I will, Rebecca,” he vowed, moving his body over hers and gently parting her legs. “I will.”