Chapter 6
M ichael stood in the doorway watching her.
Her hair was damp, curling wildly around her shoulders.
The satin robe she wore hugged the curves of her small frame, enhancing the smooth porcelain of her skin.
He quelled the urge to stride across the room and press her hard against him.
It had been a long time since he'd wanted a woman.
She must have sensed his presence because she turned around, her eyes narrowed in concern. "You shouldn't be up."
He pulled himself from his thoughts and stepped into the room. "I'm fine, only a little sore." He rotated his shoulder in demonstration. "The stuff you gave me really packed a wallop. I feel like I've been sleeping for a week."
She smiled, her wide-eyed gaze meeting his. He felt his stomach do a quick flip. "Not quite two days."
He frowned. That meant he'd been away from Clune almost three.
His brother would be worried, frantic probably.
And there was still the issue of who'd shot him.
Not that any of that really mattered if the date on the painting in the bedroom was a reality.
His mind balked at the idea. It was a mistake. Had to be.
"Michael, are you sure you're all right?" She was standing in front of him, so close that he could smell the sweet scent surrounding her. The word 'seductive' ran through his brain.
"I saw the painting."
Her expression changed from concern to puzzlement and finally embarrassment. A slight flush stained her cheeks. "I painted it years ago, before…" Her voice trailed off.
"Are we the figures in the painting, Cara?"
She nodded mutely.
Suddenly the questions he'd intended to ask seemed unimportant.
His hand moved of its own accord, gently cupping her chin and lifting her face.
She licked her lips nervously, the small pink tip of her tongue fanning the flames already leaping inside him.
He had to taste her. Just one small sip of those sweet moist lips.
She closed her eyes as his mouth touched hers, her lips fluttering under his kiss and he felt the fire grow in intensity.
One kiss was not enough. He pulled her closer, wrapping his good arm around her, ignoring the slight pain the movement caused.
A tiny moan escaped her lips. With ruthless precision, he used the opportunity to deepen the kiss.
Their tongues met, thrusting and retreating, dueling for some unknown prize.
He felt his manhood press against the soft flesh at the apex of her thighs. He could actually feel the warmth of her through the thin satin. Perhaps the prize was not unknown after all. He imagined how tight she'd be, how hot and tight.
With a groan, he moved his mouth, trailing moist kisses down the side of her neck. She threw her head back, allowing him access, her eyes still closed. Pushing back the edge of her wrapper, he kissed the soft alabaster skin of her shoulder, his hand slipping between the satiny sides of the robe.
He felt her nipple tighten as he rolled it lightly between thumb and forefinger, satisfied when she moaned his name.
Exchanging lips for hand, he circled the taut bud with the tip of his tongue, enjoying the contrast between her nipple and the silken skin of her breast, his own body pounding for release.
He could feel the fire building, threatening to consume him.
Lifting his head, he found her lips again, his tongue invading the hot, wet sanctity of her mouth. She pressed herself to him and he placed his hand on her bottom, pulling her closer, nestling his shaft tightly against the hot crevice between her thighs.
He tangled his other hand in her spun gold curls, feeling the fine strands wrap around his fingers, clinging with almost a life of their own. He wondered momentarily what it would feel like to wrap himself in her hair. God, she was magnificent.
Cara tried to think rationally, but it was impossible.
This was the stuff of her dreams. She moaned and pressed herself closer, feeling him hard against her, his heat burning through her robe.
She wanted nothing more than to encase him, feel him drive deep inside her again and again.
Her tongue mimicked her thoughts and she felt him answer her need with his own.
She ran her hands across the warm skin of his back, feeling the hard muscle encased in sun-bronzed flesh.
His beard rasped against her face and she reveled in the contrast of the velvety touch of his lips.
The smell of him surrounded her, teasing her with its potency, pheromones hinting of things to come.
His hands cupped her face and he kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her neck.
Slowly, surely, he moved downward, until she thought she'd scream with the need for him.
His lips closed again on her breast and she bit her lip to keep from crying out.
He nipped and played, enticing the shy bud into an appearance.
With each touch and tug, she felt the tightness within her ratcheting up another notch, until she was strung so tightly she thought she would explode.
Her robe hung open now, her body exposed to his hands and lips.
She ought to feel like a wanton, but instead she burned with a passion so strong it threatened to engulf her.
His teasing hand finally reached the soft curls the guarded her secret place.
Sensation shot through her and she arched against him, a moan escaping from somewhere deep inside of her.
His mouth found hers, and she opened it freely, giving him everything she had. As their kiss grew more frantic, his hand grew more bold and she realized suddenly that she was actually hearing bells.
Bells .
Her mind slammed in gear and she jerked back, gasping for breath.
"It's the doorbell." His breathing was labored, too, and the evidence of their passion was taut against the denim of his jeans.
He ran a hand through his hair, looking as bemused as she felt.
"There's someone at the door." She belted her robe tightly around her waist and tried to smooth back the wild strands of her hair.
They both turned sharply at the sound of a key in the lock. Cara reacted first. "Quick, get in the bedroom."
He stood rooted to the spot, watching the doorway to the mud room with narrowed eyes. "Who do you think it is?" The words erupted with a staccato burst.
"My housekeeper. She probably just came by to drop off some supplies. Now, go." She tried to keep her voice on an even note, but a thread of anxiety slipped in. "She wouldn't endanger you, but to be safe, I think you should stay out of sight. I'll try to get rid of her."
Michael considered her words and finally, with a terse nod, spun on his heels and disappeared into the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him.
Forcing a smile, she walked forward ready to deal with Roberta.
"Cara? Are you in there?"
She came full stop, her mind shifting gears, confusion warring with surprise.
Not Roberta. Nick Vargas . But he didn't have a key.
As if to contradict the fact, the man belonging to the voice stepped out of the mud room, a key dangling from one finger.
She frowned. How the hell had Nick gotten a key to her house?
"There you are, darling." He smiled beguilingly. "Why didn't you answer the door?"
She eyed him warily. He was good looking in a smooth sort of way. All blond hair and tanned skin, his face youthful in appearance. One would never guess that he was over forty. "I was in the shower." She waved a hand absently at her robe. "How is it you happen to have a key to my house?"
"I sweet-talked Roberta into letting me borrow hers.
" The smile broadened, impishly charming, intended no doubt to disarm, but Cara wasn't buying.
She'd known Nick most of her life. As a young man, he hadn't paid any attention to her.
She'd been little more than a child. But now that she'd returned to Colorado as an adult, things had changed.
He'd been pursuing her diligently. Offering picnics in the mountains, moonlit hikes, even the pretense of being interested in her paintings.
Until today, however, he'd been more of a nuisance than anything else.
And despite it all, she'd managed to keep him at arm's length without being rude.
But, just at the moment, he was pushing his luck.
"Why would you need a key, Nick?" She tried to keep her voice neutral, but couldn't stop the tremor of anger that colored her words.
"Why, Cara mia, you wound me with your suspicions."
"Don't call me that."
He reached out and twined a rebellious strand of her hair around his finger, tugging slightly so that she was forced to step closer. "Little Cara, always playing hard to get." His eyes raked downwards, stripping the robe off with a look.
She pulled her hair free and stepped back, pressing the lapels of her robe together.
"Nick, you haven't told me why you're here."
He leaned against the counter, crossing his long legs, his perfectly creased pants riding up to show argyle socks. Cara sighed and waited.
"I was worried."
"Worried? About what?" She frowned, puzzled by the turn of the conversation.
A loud thud echoed from the bedroom. Nick glanced at the closed door, golden eyebrows raised in question.
"The cat." Cara plastered on what she hoped was a reassuring smile.
"I didn't know you had a cat."
She racked her brains for a reasonable answer. She had never been a good liar. "She's new—to keep me from getting lonely." She met his gaze, holding hers steady.
He smiled slowly. "You don't need a cat, Cara mia. You have me." His tone was teasing, but the banter wasn't reflected in his eyes.
She ignored the remark and the endearment. "I asked you why you were worried."
He shrugged. "I was afraid something had happened to you."