Rio: Man of Destiny Page 5

  He didn’t answer, his arms tightening around her as he moved up the steps to the cabin.

  “It’s the boy, isn’t it?” she asked as he carried her into the cabin. At the feed store, when Pueblo had mentioned the boy, Rio’s expression had quickly closed over pain. When he didn’t answer this time, she knew the boy haunted him. Rio had been afraid he couldn’t save her, either.

  “Sit still.” He plopped her on a chair and hurriedly stoked the old stove, placing fresh water in the kettle. His movements were angry, sudden, tearing the old tin tub down from its peg and placing it on the floor. He looked at his shaking hands, the fingers spread. “You’ll want a bath. But first a cup of tea and something to eat.”

  He quickly rummaged through the shelves to find chamomile tea, placing a bag in a cup and almost slammed it to the table beside her. He pushed his hands through his hair, glanced angrily at her and muttered in a disgusted tone, “You look like a child, huddled there in my jacket—frightened, shivering, wide-eyed, streaks of dirt across your nose. And damn it, your mouth—It’s swollen. I hurt you.”

  He glanced at the bed, closed his eyes and inhaled sharply. He picked up the two water buckets and left the cabin.

  Paloma sat and shook, her hands trembling as she sipped her tea. Rio returned, placed the buckets on the stove. With each glance, his expression darkened and his anger lashed at her. “I’ll be outside,” he said too stiffly. She sat for a time, collecting safety around her. Rio was clearly angry, the cabin still vibrating with it

  She managed to kneel by the galvanized tub and wash her hair. Then she bathed, sundown skimming through the pines to enter the old glass windows. She pushed her tenor back into the past and dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans. She’d given away too much to Rio; he’d seen too much inside her. She pushed and shoved and gathered her shields; as a survivor, Paloma knew how to protect herself.

  “Finished,” she said, coming out into the chilly night, her hair combed and free, falling to her waist.

  “rll fix supper.” Rio had been sitting, staring off into the forest, his expression grim. His hair was damp, as though he’d bathed in the icy creek, and he’d changed clothes. His sleeping bag was propped against the horses’ saddles on the porch. She noted that her lacy underwear had been tossed on a chair.

  He surged to his feet, hauled the packs into his fists with one sweep and stalked inside the cabin. Uncertain of his mood, she followed him inside. “Don’t bother to cook for me.”

  He lasered a dark look at her. “I’m hungry, okay?”

  “Why are you angry? Because you kissed me?” Paloma swallowed the dry lump in her throat. She didn’t appeal to men. Too rangy, too big, too bold and tough—Jonathan had made that very clear. Rio would be regretting it now, that savage hungry kiss and his tenderness.

  He placed his hands on his hips, then one hand shot out to capture a length of her damp hair, lifting her face to his angry one. “What do you think you’re doing, slim? Coming up here, walking around, free as a bird while a bear could taste you at any moment?”

  That wild need surged inside her, the hunger that had simmered in her for months. She studied him, that savage expression, those dark eyes lashing her. “Is that what you did? Taste?”

  His tone wasn’t nice. One black eyebrow lifted at her wamingly. “Honey, you’re not up to sparring with me. And I’m not Boone.”

  She snorted at that “I’ll say. He was the sweetest man I’ve ever known.”

  His gaze slowly took in her face, and darkened as he looked at her mouth. “Don’t count on me being sweet. Not where you’re concerned.”

  “Don’t feel sorry for me. I should never have told you anything,” she shot back, angry with him, angry with herself for giving him an insight she’d locked away for years. She pushed his hand away. “I know you regret kissing me. I’m not your usual fare. But we both had a reaction to a deadly situation. I know I—”

  Rio slapped a cast-iron skillet on the old stove; the metallic crash echoed against the cabin’s walls. “Lay off. While I’m cooking, why don’t you go make friends with your new horse? Her name is Mai-Ling.”

  “My horse? But I couldn’t.” She’d never owned an animal, or wanted to; loving ties could so easily be torn away.

  “If you’re going to live up here, you’ll need her.”

  Rio was right; her damaged ankle had protested the hike up the mountain. “I’ll buy her or rent her and you can have her back when I’m done. How much?”

  Rio looked up at the ceiling as though asking for divine help and shook his head. “You just don’t get it, do you?”

  Three

  “Smooth, Rio. Real smooth,” Rio muttered as he lay on the front porch at midnight The threatening Rocky Mountain storm was as thunderous as his mood; building the lean-to for the horses hadn’t helped to settle his taut nerves, the pounding sensual need in his body.

  He watched a porcupine shuttle across the rainy ground. The lady was shy, and his kiss had stunned her. As worldly and sophisticated as Paloma appeared, she knew little about a man wanting her. He’d known in that moment when he’d locked her body to his that there had never been a woman in his life to compare-and never would be. She fitted him and hadn’t a clue that he wanted her. He snorted and flipped on his side. “Perverse female.”

  He dragged his hand through his hair. He ached for the woman, for the child pushed beyond her limits, for her limits.

  After their escape, he’d had to have Paloma’s mouth, to know that she was alive, that he was alive. He’d tossed away tenderness and dived into his needs, surprised by her shy answer, just that slight, sweet lift of her mouth to his. He’d wanted to take her there on the ground, to celebrate life, to place his child within her. But when he’d looked down into her dazed dirt-stained face, the rising color of her cheeks, he knew she was an innocent. He wasn’t prepared for the tenderness then, for the need to hold and comfort and gently make her his bride. The emotion was traditional, shocking him. Bride.

  Paloma would laugh at that tender thought. He snorted again and Frisco answered with a nicker. Paloma was wary and uncertain of him now. “Fine thing, when you want to put your ring on the lady’s finger and she hasn’t got a clue. Now that does a lot for my confidence with women,” Rio muttered before giving himself to the fresh pine-scented air and letting the rising wind sweep him into sleep.

  He awoke to his own terror, to the fierce rain beating the earth, flowing in silvery sheets from the roof. He awoke with images of war-frightened children from his stint in the military’s special forces sliding across his eyes, and then the little boy in the mine. He awoke to the woman crouched beside him, dressed only in a man’s large T-shirt. Her slender hand rested on his chest and he shot out his hand gripping her wrist, binding him to her and away from the nightmare. “You were dreaming,” she said softly, her hair drifting across his damp face as her other hand smoothed his cheek. The mist from the rain had dampened her T-shirt, plastering it to her body. “Come inside.”

  “How much did you hear?” The echoes of his cry shamed him. The nightmare repeated his defeat. He couldn’t save the boy—the image of the small torn body lying at the bottom of the muddy mine shaft haunted him. In a desperate attempt to link himself with life and hope and warmth, he flattened Paloma’s soft palm against his cheek, kissed it and let her natural exotic fragrance envelop him. Again she looked stunned, as if unprepared for the caress.

  “It was that same mine, wasn’t it?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” The soft question stunned him; not even his family had dared enter his torment—they’c left him alone. A plain-speaking woman, Paloma knew how to flop his secrets in front of him. He glared at her, but his hands kept hers close, locked to his body and his face as the gray rain slashed down at the mountain.

  She wasn’t quitting he realized as she said, “Your heart is pounding as if you’ve just run a race and you’ve—” She studied him closely. “Your face is damp with sweat, not rain I
know the difference. I’ve been there.”

  “If you’re feeling sorry for me—don’t.” He closed his eyes remembering how he’d run through the forest fire, sides aching, and then with a rope tied to a tree he’d lowered himself down into that damned mine, hand over hand, praying.... One touch of his hand to the boy’s cold throat told him of death He’d seen other children, children he hadn’t been able to rescue in war-torn lands and he’d known.... When Rio opened his eyes, he met furious blue ones.

  “It isn’t fair,” she whispered, shaking him slightly, her fingers digging into his shoulders. “You know about me, too much about me, and you’re keeping this, hoarding it You tried your best to save him. Let it go.”

  “Did you hate your mother?” he countered, the question dancing out of him without warning. He stroked the long length of hair that had come to drift across his chest, sparkling with mist. He wanted to wrap himself in that silk, to forge everything but the sweetness of the taking.... He brought the strand to his lips, wanting to taste more. He admired the dark steely flash of her eyes, the set of her jaw that told of her pride and strength.

  “Yes, but you can’t hate yourself. You tried to save him That’s why you shook today, isn’t it? That same mine haunting you. You thought you might fail again. That’s why you kissed me...the aftershock of fear.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  Her smile was indulgent, an adult to a child. “We both know that I’m not your type. You were angry that I saw how vulnerable you were. That kiss was meant to be a punishmen and you got confused because—you’re you, and you react automatically when you have a woman in your arms. You’re very...practiced.”

  “You’ve got a fine opinion of me,” he said after a brief curse that brought her smile. He’d known women, tried to find an excitement that he needed, and he’d failed. He’d always known that he’d recognize the woman to take his heart, to start his nesting urges. Compared to Paloma’s innocence, he felt old and worn; he had to protect her from himself. He wanted her as his bride, though she’d be more frightened if she knew. “I wanted you then...I want you now. Leave me alone,” he said too sharply, uneasy with his need to hold her close to him, to bind her to him as though she were the other half of his heart. Slowly he moved her hand from his chest to his stomach and lower, threatening and daring her—and needing her touch. She drew back as though scalded. Then so gently she took his breath away, she placed her hand upon the sleeping bag, just there—moving lightly over his hardened body, exploring until he gripped her hand and pushed it away. “That’s enough. I’m not playing games.”

  She studied the black strands of his hair within her pale fingers. She gripped his hair, pulled it taut but not hurting, in her fists. “Neither am I. Come inside.”

  Rio reached up to wrap his fists in her hair. “I don’t need sex as a thank-you.”

  One sleek brow lifted, challenging him. “How arrogant Now get this-if you remember, I’m the one who got out first. I got you out, mister. Do I have to drag you inside and ravish you?”

  He almost laughed at the old-fashioned term. Then he drew her head down to his, their lips touching. “I’ve never told anyone about my mother, except Boone,” she whispered, between light kisses.

  “Don’t confuse me with Boone. I want you. And not just for tonight.” He kissed her then, in the way that he wanted her, tender at first and then gave himself to the beat, and the timid, exciting play of her tongue in his mouth.

  They stared at each other then, heat and need leaping between them and her fingertips dug into his shoulder. “You sure haven’t kissed much, slim,” Rio heard himself rasp, while he thought how sweet and innocent she was. Perhaps not a virgin, but her experience with men was clearly limited. His bride, his heart, he thought again.

  She shot him a look that said life with her wouldn’t be easy, but worth every minute. “I can keep up with you, hot lips. How could I confuse you with Boone, that sweet man? You’re a savage, you know. You’ve got everyone fooled. You’re all stormy and raw and that’s what I want now—everything real and pretenses stripped away. I’ve had a lifetime of pretense. Right now, you’re closer to me than anyone has ever been. I saw truth down there in that mine and now I want it all. I suppose that dropping the games frightens a big, strong hero like you.”

  Paloma was more woman than he’d known—real, true, baldly expressing her need to feel alive, to celebrate life. He smiled at the inviting taunt so like her, and almost groaned as her lips touched the corners of his. Her bite surprised him. He knew then that this would be his wedding night, with the woman he intended to love all his life. “It’s been a long time for me. We’ll be plenty close, if I have you in that bed.”

  “We’ll see who has who.” She laughed then and rose, sauntering into the cabin and leaving him drooling. Rio closed his eyes against that quiver of soft flesh beneath the hem of her T-shirt.

  She’d been terrified, childhood horrors returning to her and he’d reached out to claim her in that safe, easy way. He’d held her like a child, comforted her there in that dark mine. Then in that searing kiss, he’d become primitive, taking what he wanted and yet he’d denied his desire—and hers. Paloma needed that savage cleansing now, to find the man Rio was beneath his easy ways and lady-killer smile. Just then, he was so real and vivid to her, as if all the gray blurs had been sucked away from life, and Rio was all that was important. The tempo within him could rise so fast—almost with wildfire intensity—and yet in some unknown way, Rio could soothe her with a touch. She had to explore Rio’s melody, the undercurrents and to give herself to the odd harmony of wind and fire and cool spring rain that he could give her. Tonight, she’d discovered Rio’s fears, that he’d been terrified that another life would be lost in the mine. His emotions ran strong beneath that smooth, beautiful, almost savage face—yes, that was what she liked about Rio, that primitive, honest symphony that he brought to her mind and soul.

  She smiled whimsically, sensing with surprise that she also gave him what he needed to soothe his pain. Was it true then? The excitement she felt when his dark eyes seared her, his body rising to her touch? Was she desirable, needed, alive? Alive. She needed the raw fiery truth that she’d found with Rio in that kiss. Her fears, her past, her nightmares had been burned away and she needed more, to jump into the tempo of life that she’d found in that one instant with Rio. He’d ripped away everything but the naked, bold need to claim him.

  How could he hold her, soothe and cuddle her? Paloma smiled again, surprised at her determination to find Rio’s essence, when she’d avoided entanglements. The man was a mystery she intended to unravel. Was that moment when he locked her to him, desperate for her, true?

  Tonight, she had to have truth and she’d found it in that one kiss.

  How old-fashioned, Paloma mused as Rio entered the cabin twenty long minutes later. She hadn’t expected his courtesy—giving her time to change her mind, to lock the door, or to prepare for him. She felt almost like a bride, waiting in the old oversize bed that had been Boone’s and where, as a child, she had slept safe and warm. Rio wore only his jeans and stripped them away slowly as if giving her more time. His hair was wet, gleaming, and firelight from the stove’s open door flickered upon his nude body when he walked to her. Though she couldn’t see his face, her body lurched and heated at the sight of his bare gleaming shoulders, that narrowing of his waist and hips and those long powerful legs.

  “Are you certain this is what you want?” he asked in a deep, uneven, uncertain tone that made her want to leap upon him.

  He sat on the bed, studying her for just a moment before he slid between the sheets. Rio lay with his hands behind his head, watching the firelight play within the old rafters.

  “I know what I want You smell of rain. You stood in it,” she whispered, noting the droplets on his chest and shoulders. She trailed a fingertip through a drop and he shivered at her touch, his nipples contracting to hard nubs. She touched one and he tensed, jarring the bed as
his body arched abruptly.

  “Stop. It seemed right, coming to you fresh from the rain. I liked it on you, on your lashes and hair, like little diamonds. I like the smell of it on your skin.” Then his foot reached to play with hers, warm and comforting, and a moment later, he took her hand and placed it on his chest. “I like this. Us, lying here together. In a year or so, we could be lying here like this with a baby between us. I’m a plain man, dear heart. I like to work with my hands and I like to play. I’ve never been to an opera, and jeans have always been good enough for me—except on Sunday for church. You’ll want your career and travel, I know. But I’ll be here, waiting for you. I’d like to give you more, but all I have is what I am. Do you think that could be enough?”

  “I don’t understand you.” His words had shaken her, simple, sweet and true promises that were any woman’s dream. He’d spoken as if he’d placed his heart in her keeping. That hard racing pulse beneath her palm said he craved her and she fed upon that thought—he wanted her for herself, not for her talent. She shivered, realizing that Rio was the first person in her life to want her—Jonathan had only wanted a trophy conquest. The thought of Rio desiring her both terrified and delighted her. She was impatient for him, to strip away everything and lose herself in what Rio’s hot kisses had offered, burning away terror and leaping into—then she’d be done with the need to have him. “You stood in the rain—for me,” she repeated. “I find that very unusual.”

  “Unusual? It’s country. It’s not quite a shower, but in a pinch, it works. A man takes care to present himself well to the woman he wants,” Rio said almost too patiently. “I like this better,” he whispered, suddenly turning to lie over her, his fingers brushing her hair from her temples. He traced a long strand across the pillowcase. “Are you afraid?”

  “Of this? No. I’m not a virgin. I know the mechanics.”

  “I don’t think what is happening between us is mechanical.”