chin.
“I—I can well understand how all this must look to you, but—but—”
“But I’m wrong, is that it?” Jeth finished for her, his tone almost gentle.
She shook her head.
“Oh, Miss Martin—” He straightened up, an impotent rage filling his soul. Long ago he had dispensed with dreams, especially those about women. But occasionally, when he felt especially lonely and the long evening hours in the study stretched out before him, he wondered what it would be like to know, like his father, the love of a devoted woman. Sometimes his thoughts wandered further, and he envisioned what she would look like, this woman of his dreams. A small, shapely figure, eyes that could melt the needles from a cactus, honey-gold hair, and a mouth so sweet and passionate that it was like drinking ambrosia to kiss her—that was the description of the woman he yearned to give his heart and soul. A woman who looked like Cara Martin.
“Let’s see if I’m wrong about this, too, Miss Martin,” Jeth said, his voice dangerously soft. He reached down and slipped an arm around her waist. Cara was in the leather enclosure of his embrace before she could close her astonished mouth.
“Let me go!” she demanded, aware of the sudden intimate pressure of his chest against hers. His move had been so sudden, he was pressing her so close that her arms dangled uselessly. They had nowhere to go but to his shoulders, and she must not put them there.
“This is your chance to prove me wrong about you, Miss Martin, that you are not what I think you are, that you were never Ryan’s—”
“Don’t say it!” Cara said desperately. “I can’t bear to hear you say it.”
“Then prove to me how wrong I am.”
“Don’t—” The word was just forming when Jeth’s lips closed over her mouth.
Cara stiffened against him, tightened her lips in rigid protest against such a violation of her privacy. Small fists pummeled his shoulders with powerless blows that drained her remaining strength. Jeth, his hand a gentle vise under the silken fall of her hair, felt the tension suddenly leave and released her mouth. Cara’s lids fluttered open, the depths of her eyes starry and deeply violet. Jeth stared down into them, and she was conscious of a strange, frightening desire asserting itself deep within her. “Please let me go,” she pleaded, her mouth so close to him that her lips stroked his when she spoke.
“No,” he murmured and kissed her eyes. She whimpered—to Jeth’s ears like a kitten lost in a storm—but he could not afford to be merciful. He pressed her closer and she gasped and tensed as his lips closed over hers again. He might have let her go then, but she did not pull away. Against her mouth Jeth groaned in gratitude, for he could not have borne the sudden release of her from his arms, the denial of her lips, the feel of her body. The fragrance of her filled his nostrils and drifted down into the hollow of his heart where he had conceived the image of her likeness. Exultantly, hungrily, tasting and devouring her, he led her deeper into a world of sexuality where he could not have known that she had never been before.
And Cara, the sudden, unexpected need of him destroying her defenses, could not prevent the ardor with which her flesh responded.
Long after her body had helped Jeth to prove his point, she stayed within his embrace. Finally, he pushed her from him. Shame would not let her meet his eyes. To finish her humiliation, tears began to run down her cheeks.
“Believe it or not,” he said quietly, “I wish I’d been wrong. It would be comforting to know that Ryan had loved a woman who could have remained faithful until his body was cold.”
Jeth brought out a folded white lawn handkerchief and tossed it to her. “Now let’s do a little reconsidering, shall we? I’m sure that you realize that it’s out of the question for you to live on the ranch.”
Cara dabbed at her eyes. “I have to come, Jeth,” she said.
“I—I can well understand how all this must look to you, but—but—”
“But I’m wrong, is that it?” Jeth finished for her, his tone almost gentle.
She shook her head.
“Oh, Miss Martin—” He straightened up, an impotent rage filling his soul. Long ago he had dispensed with dreams, especially those about women. But occasionally, when he felt especially lonely and the long evening hours in the study stretched out before him, he wondered what it would be like to know, like his father, the love of a devoted woman. Sometimes his thoughts wandered further, and he envisioned what she would look like, this woman of his dreams. A small, shapely figure, eyes that could melt the needles from a cactus, honey-gold hair, and a mouth so sweet and passionate that it was like drinking ambrosia to kiss her—that was the description of the woman he yearned to give his heart and soul. A woman who looked like Cara Martin.
“Let’s see if I’m wrong about this, too, Miss Martin,” Jeth said, his voice dangerously soft. He reached down and slipped an arm around her waist. Cara was in the leather enclosure of his embrace before she could close her astonished mouth.
“Let me go!” she demanded, aware of the sudden intimate pressure of his chest against hers. His move had been so sudden, he was pressing her so close that her arms dangled uselessly. They had nowhere to go but to his shoulders, and she must not put them there.
“This is your chance to prove me wrong about you, Miss Martin, that you are not what I think you are, that you were never Ryan’s—”
“Don’t say it!” Cara said desperately. “I can’t bear to hear you say it.”
“Then prove to me how wrong I am.”
“Don’t—” The word was just forming when Jeth’s lips closed over her mouth.
Cara stiffened against him, tightened her lips in rigid protest against such a violation of her privacy. Small fists pummeled his shoulders with powerless blows that drained her remaining strength. Jeth, his hand a gentle vise under the silken fall of her hair, felt the tension suddenly leave and released her mouth. Cara’s lids fluttered open, the depths of her eyes starry and deeply violet. Jeth stared down into them, and she was conscious of a strange, frightening desire asserting itself deep within her. “Please let me go,” she pleaded, her mouth so close to him that her lips stroked his when she spoke.
“No,” he murmured and kissed her eyes. She whimpered—to Jeth’s ears like a kitten lost in a storm—but he could not afford to be merciful. He pressed her closer and she gasped and tensed as his lips closed over hers again. He might have let her go then, but she did not pull away. Against her mouth Jeth groaned in gratitude, for he could not have borne the sudden release of her from his arms, the denial of her lips, the feel of her body. The fragrance of her filled his nostrils and drifted down into the hollow of his heart where he had conceived the image of her likeness. Exultantly, hungrily, tasting and devouring her, he led her deeper into a world of sexuality where he could not have known that she had never been before.
And Cara, the sudden, unexpected need of him destroying her defenses, could not prevent the ardor with which her flesh responded.
Long after her body had helped Jeth to prove his point, she stayed within his embrace. Finally, he pushed her from him. Shame would not let her meet his eyes. To finish her humiliation, tears began to run down her cheeks.
“Believe it or not,” he said quietly, “I wish I’d been wrong. It would be comforting to know that Ryan had loved a woman who could have remained faithful until his body was cold.”
Jeth brought out a folded white lawn handkerchief and tossed it to her. “Now let’s do a little reconsidering, shall we? I’m sure that you realize that it’s out of the question for you to live on the ranch.”
Cara dabbed at her eyes. “I have to come, Jeth,” she said.
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