The Seduction Of Fiona Tallchief Read online

  Fiona glanced into the old sewing room, where she had shared so many hours with Mrs. Watkins. If she had a child who needed a home, safety and a fence against the forces that could ruin his life, she would do exactly what Joel intended. He had honor, so she admired him, and in the time she’d known him, he had not lied to her She had simply jumped to her own conclusions, and she would have to be wary of that in the future. Fiona swept around the table laden with tools, needing to put something between them, her nerves humming.

  “Where did you get Una’s chest?” she shot at him, wanting to know everything at once.

  “I don’t think I want to go into the details of that just yet,” Joel stated, glancing at the two kittens stretching and yawning and tumbling from a low cardboard box. “Meet my up-and-coming barn cats, Mix and Match. Mix is the calico and Match is the gray.”

  Delighted with the tiny balls of fur, Fiona tossed her plaid over a chair and knelt to play with them. Joel crouched beside her. His hand skimmed her hair, and when she looked up at him, Joel’s expression was almost tender as he said, “Stay with me, Fiona. Lie in my bed with me, and tell me what happened to you. How hard it was to be good all those years, saving yourself for me.”

  Fiona studied Joel’s expression, dissecting it. It lay between desire, mockery of himself and whimsy. She dismissed whimsy; it wasn’t on the Palladin Iron Man’s customary menu. “I don’t like rules or orders, and you’re full of them. I saw your office... you’re structured—a minus in your account, much too neat, analytical and methodical in getting what you want—another minus. Logic isn’t one of my favorite games. Sometimes you can miss a real opportunity by trying to think it out, so I trust my impulses. And you’re used to getting your way—a definite minus, because I like having mine. I don’t promise to be good with you,” she returned slowly.

  His finger circled her ear, tugging gently on the tiny, dangling moss agate earring. “With me, Fiona the fiery, I expect you to be very bad and very honest.”

  “We have that between us, I suppose—honesty.” She gave him an arch look and cuddled the kittens close to her. “You didn’t have to tell me your feelings, yet you gave them to me.”

  He hadn’t told her everything. The dark shadows clung to him as he rubbed Mix under the chin, and Match batted at his finger.

  “What do you need?” he asked Fiona in an uneven, deep whisper that skittered along her skin and into her heart.

  “That you always be honest with me in return.”

  “I can give you that,” he spoke firmly as if giving his pledge.

  “You’re not so tough, Joel Iron Man Palladin. Or you wouldn’t have fallen for both kittens. One would do for a barn cat. They are old enough to be kept in the barn now, not where you can pet them and stuff them with expensive kitty food,” she whispered as his mouth came softly, warmly over her parted one.

  She lingered, enjoying the light, tantalizing brush of his lips for a moment and placed her hand on his arm, claiming his dragon. “You know too much about me, Mr. Palladin, while I know little about you. I intend to—”

  “You know the essentials.” His tongue flicked against her bottom lip. “I expect you will have a thorough investigation of me done soon. You’re like that—meticulous about your involvements. You want me, and you’re going to have me in your own time and in what you think are your own terms.”

  “Will I? Don’t be so certain,” she whispered, temper simmering. She kissed the kittens before she handed them to him. Joel was too confident, arrogant, while she was shaking. She stood, reached for her plaid and said, “Don’t call me, I’ll—”

  Joel placed the kittens near their milk and stood slowly. “No, you won’t,” he said, tugging her into his arms. He flicked off the light switch behind her, and with her feet above the floor, he simply carried her to his bed.

  This is what I want, Fiona thought wildly as Joel’s solid body covered hers. What I need.

  “I’m not fighting you,” she whispered as Joel’s lips nibbled at hers.

  He chuckled and eased out of his sweatshirt, then burrowed his face against the hollow of her throat and shoulder. “No, you’re not fighting me. But you haven’t decided to enter the game just yet, have you? You’re weighing all the gives and takes and forging your battle plan, aren’t you? You’re wondering how much of your independence you’ll have to give and what I’ll take and what you can get from me. I like that, the dissecting of reality, cutting away fantasy. Few women are capable of keeping their emotions reined. You say you’re impulsive, but there’s a fine, intricate, feminine mind ticking inside this.” He kissed her temple.

  Then Joel eased to her side, placed his arms over his head and grinned at her. “I’ve missed the scent of you, like bluebells and heather in the mountain wind. That and the woman scent... You may leave now, or I can tell you how I want to put my hands on you, tend your breasts and kiss them and make them stop aching—”

  Fiona narrowed her eyes. “You’re no gentleman, Palladin. I thought you were sleeping when I said that.”

  Then, because he grinned as if he’d gotten the best of her, she lowered her lips to his chest, flicked his nipple with her tongue.

  “Is this what you want, Fiona the fiery?” he asked, hauling her up to him, his expression fierce and demanding as he placed his mouth over hers.

  She would take him and be done, keeping her heart safe—she would have no rule maker stepping inside her emotions—

  His hands were trembling, rough textured against her stomach, flowing lightly beneath her sweater, coming to rest upon her breasts. His caress was so gentle, seeking the shape of her beneath her bra, cupping her.

  She hadn’t expected to feel so soft, so feminine and yielding. So treasured.

  She hadn’t known the beauty of being gently, so reverently touched as if she were priceless. Magic, the woman inside her thought, warming...he touches me and magic happens. She hadn’t expected the storm of emotions, rather the quick burning of her body—

  “Sweetheart,” Joel whispered longingly, unevenly, the old-fashioned endearment curling around her, pleasuring her because it was just for her, just as Joel was meant for her.

  Lace tore and she waited for his hands to come upon her. They came slowly, trembling and gentle, despite their calluses, size and weight, and she cried out with the exquisite pleasure, tears burning her lids, and one sliding slowly down her cheek.

  Joel’s slow enticing kisses brushed her lips and crossed her cheek. He held very still, his body trembling as he slowly raised to look down at her face. He looked angry and yet sad, disappointed, his hair standing out in peaks from her fingers. His hands slid slowly away, tugging down her sweater.

  “What happened?” she asked unevenly, shaken by his expression.

  He’d taken himself away, though he lay next to her, his forearm over his face, a shudder racking his body.

  How could he leave her now with the magic still floating, heating inside her, the song unsung?

  Sweetheart, he’d whispered, desperately, and she’d treasured the uneven, rasping sound of his deep voice...and now he was done with her?

  Anger and frustration surged out of her like a wild beast. She hadn’t been skilled enough.

  Fiona leaped out of bed, shaking badly. Wrapping her pride and dignity around her, she lifted her head. “I am not a happy woman, Palladin.”

  Six

  Joel yanked on the crowbar harder than necessary, his body humming with the needs Fiona had ignited hours before. The hardwood board he had intended to replace in the old kitchen broke, the crack echoing in the night. The violence shimmered elegantly in his glass of wine and the candles set upon the floor.

  Violence. He’d teethed on it. Perhaps he was his father’s son, inheriting a primitive need to dominate, to take and claim a woman. He’d shown Fiona how hungry he was for her, and he’d taken her mouth with passion driving him. She’d answered him with her own hungers. And sometime in the fever that hunger had feathered into temptation
, to softness—

  After arriving two weeks ago, working night and day until he dropped into bed, Joel had replaced the old well pump with a new one. He was surprised at how much he enjoyed tinkering with the equipment, the tools in his hands and the motor purring successfully. He’d attended to the various permits he needed, and with the aid of a plumber, had hot and cold running water and a toilet. The new thermal windows were installed and the outside doors refinished with new storm doors. The old wood cookstove was in the kitchen, because he couldn’t bear to part with it. He had everything he needed to keep his son warm in Wyoming’s fierce winter, including a new, efficient woodstove and baseboard heaters in every room.

  A new facsimile paper curled out of the machine, the purchase of a new restaurant chain needing his attention. Doug Michaels, Joel’s protégé and replacement, was capable, recognizing problems beyond his experience, but needed Joel’s consultation. Joel had a place for his son; modern-day science allowed him to protect Mamie’s empire, small repayment for what she had done for him and his brothers.

  “I have everything I need,” Joel stated grimly while easing the broken board out of the floor and replacing it.

  Except Fiona in his bed.

  He hadn’t meant to let himself dive into the soft warmth of her, in a whimsical beckoning that had drawn him to no other woman. He hadn’t meant to kiss her desperately, ripping away the shields of his hunger, exposing his need of her.

  The tenderness erupting in him had frightened him.

  Though it had been years since he’d had a woman, he remembered the cold, clinical way he’d satisfied her and himself. Was that sex really satisfying, or a temporary release without the heat?

  She wouldn’t like rules, and he had made a life of them, structuring a wall against the invasion of his emotions. The potential for jealousy, a new emotion, surprised him.

  Joel studied his hands, which could easily have left bruises on her smooth skin. He detested men who were violent with women.

  What made him want to share his thoughts with Fiona? He’d been able to tuck women in neat compartments before.

  Her tear had stopped him...just one drop of moisture, a silvery trail of dampness down her soft cheek...more effective than Mamie standing over the bed.

  Joel threw down the crowbar and wiped the sweat from his face. “Well, fine,” he said to Mix and Match who were tumbling, racing, swatting each other around the living room furniture. “So last Saturday night, I’m gallant—God knows where that came from—and on Monday, I’m aching to hear her voice, so I pick up the phone and order flowers for Mamie. It’s Saturday night again, and Miss Tallchief has until Monday to put in an appearance or—”

  Exactly how did he make himself appealing to a woman who wanted nothing more to do with him. He’d gripped the phone, waiting for one warm word from her, damn her, her wildflower scent curling around him. Fiona had been curt, businesslike and shutting any doors to further conversation. His pride demanded that he not call again; he would simply—what? He listened to the sound of a horse stopping, the creak of leather, and footsteps stalking across the porch.

  The front door slammed as though someone was sharing his bad temper, and Joel sat in the shadows, his back braced against the wall. Fiona, dressed in tight black jeans and her warm tartan plaid covering her black, long-sleeved sweater, stepped into the doorway of the kitchen. Her hair had been ruffled by wind, and she stood, legs braced apart, looking down at him and tapping a fat envelope on her thigh.

  In an effort to seem calm, while his body was already hardening. lurching at her scent, Joel picked up his wineglass, swirled the contents and sipped slowly.

  “You’re looking dark and broody,” she noted pleasantly. She tossed a fat envelope onto his lap and dismissed his lack of welcome. “I think we’re even now. I’ve discovered that you’ve had me investigated thoroughly, and I repaid the favor. That’s your juvenile record—somewhat altered, according to the date gaps—the dance studios where you worked while putting yourself through college, the truck loading docks, some news articles, where you were born, the different places you lived before Mamie’s acquisition of your family, information on your brothers, and it appears that someone did a real cleanup job... I would suppose you had a hand in it.”

  “Mamie handled several unsavory items. It didn’t matter to me. I’d already lived it.” Joel braced himself against the darkness she had found. While he’d been hungering for her, he’d been a fool to think that Fiona would dismiss the past. “Then you know my father was killed in prison. I suppose Calum is very thorough, investigating me, or Sybil has. I’ve seen their work.”

  “This is my work, Palladin. I’m not exactly the baby you think I am...all those causes were carefully researched, you know. I know your father’s aliases and how, immediately after he was taken captive by my brothers, those three boys who came to the mountain suddenly dropped from sight. Mamie did a good job, I’d say, turning your lives around...and that’s what you intend to do with Cody.”

  Fiona glanced around the room, and entranced, Joel watched her face soften as she noted the old sewing room. “The light in there is perfect for plants. I used to crochet with Mrs. Watkins, or weave. My mother used to say that when a woman weaves, she’s putting her heart into it, settling the world and troubles and—”

  Fiona broke off and began again. “In the spring you’ll see Mrs. Watkins’ wonderful flower garden, or what’s left of it. No one has tended the bulbs for years, separating them. I used to love the brilliant yellow border of daffodils against that old picket fence.”

  She turned back to Joel. “I’m good at what I do, and from the facts, I’d say you’re making an extraordinary effort to save your son. You don’t want him to step into the life you had—aye and blast you,” she shot at him. “You’re the one who scooped Una’s chest from Sybil’s grasp, just as she had made connection with the owners and was set to travel, to verify it. Someone matching your description arrived too quickly and offered the owners an ungodly sum and strolled away with it He had a cleft in his chin and according to her—wicked, delightful green eyes. She said he reminded her of a boy making off with a pirate’s chest, when it was only old lace and costume jewelry. He strolled away whistling, she said.”

  She pushed back the black, glossy hair feathering her cheek. “It wasn’t fair to seduce the woman with your charm, Joel...to make off with the chest while an eighty-year-old woman is swooning over your bad-boy looks, and serving you cookies and milk. Take a memo, old chum, your methods of persuasion won’t work on me.”

  Fiona took a deep breath, whipped off her tartan plaid and folded it precisely, concentrating on it as if she were preparing for battle. Joel eased to his feet and braced himself; he would stand when she dismissed him. He’d expected her investigation of him; Fiona was a fastidious, intelligent woman, picking her way through what she wanted. The facts, stacked against him, said that she wouldn’t want him.

  “So you’ve come to claim me then,” he said, challenging her, sensing that she was prepared to end whatever ran between them.

  Her head went up, eyes cutting at him like steel, her body taut. He saw her then, poised in the wind, at home in the wild mountain elements, pride in the lift of her head, the set of her shoulders. She would stand the test of time and troubles.

  “Aye and blast. I have, Joel Palladin. I suppose it’s the blasted temporary reckoning between us, or because I’m a Tallchief and October raises my wild emotions. You had no right to be gallant, to pull away from me because of a teardrop. You looked as stricken as one of my brothers when a woman cries. I don’t think of you as my brother, Joel Palladin, understand that. The tear came of its own will, because your hands upon my breasts created a lovely warm weight.”

  The beauty of her words slammed into him; he wasn’t expecting the softness from her.

  She took the wineglass from him, lifted and drained it. While he foraged through how to handle this volatile woman, Fiona stated, “You’re afraid o
f me, Joel. You don’t know how to handle me. Admit it.”

  He inhaled, jarred by the desirable female challenging him. He’d always controlled his emotions; he would now. “Don’t push, Fiona.”

  “I know who you are, Joel Palladin. Deep inside where you dream of romance and fantasy and dragons slaying the wrongdoers. I’ve got brothers and they quiver at a tear, just like you.” She trailed her fingertip around his jaw, placed it in the cleft of his chin and smirked. “Lovely. Just lovely. Palladin’s Iron Man runs for the bushes at a virgin’s tear.... And by the way, I really did not appreciate you investigating my past few boyfriends’ credit cards and the motels they visited. Affairs don’t really require double beds. Once I tapped into your private electronic service, the rest was a piece of cake. You’ve made me your hobby, Palladin. Now I’ve made you mine. If you want to know whose bed I slept in, it was my own. Goodbye, Palladin,” she added lightly, then picked up her plaid on her way out and slammed the door behind her.

  She ran on foot through the night, ducking pine branches over the trail and muttering, Morning Star’s reins clasped in her hand. Joel Palladin had raised her fears and her longings and he could tear her apart. His vulnerability, longing to give his son a meaningful life, and his tenderness would have sunk any woman’s defenses. Fiona ducked a branch, hopped over a log and leaped into panic. Sweat dripped from her, impatiently swept away, only to return. Her heart raced, pounded with running and with the thoughts of how Joel had looked, towering over her, a man no longer cold and hard, but one steaming and hungry.

  “He made me break one of my rules—going after him as though he needed to be claimed! As if I were running after him! I’ve actually cooked and cleaned for that man, and worried about him!”

  After returning Morning Star to Birk’s pasture, Fiona walked through the familiar shadows of Amen Flats. There was Calum and Talia’s house, a modern affair; Lacey and Birk’s restored bordello stood on a knoll overlooking Amen Flats. Near Tallchief Mountain, Duncan and Sybil and their brood nestled in their beds, and Elspeth and Alek cherished the old Russian homestead with sheep grazing in the moonlit fields. Fiona studied the mountains jutting into the night sky, calling her. Perhaps her Tallchief blood sang wild in the night, the trees and the rocks and the meadows beckoning to her.