Christine Rimmer - A Hero for Sophie Jones Read online

  Somewhere nearby, just beyond the curtain to the concession area, that pigeon started cooing again. They both turned toward the sound, and then back to each other.

  He said her name again, low and rough, the same as before, "Sophie."

  She only said, "Yes."

  And then he reached out.

  She went into his arms, joyous, eager, offering up her mouth.

  And he didn't refuse her. He didn't try to argue with her anymore.

  He only put his lips on hers and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close and hard against him.

  Heat and need shot through her, swirled around, moved out to the surface of her skin and then flowed back in again. And he went on kissing her, endlessly, only stopping once—to lift his mouth and slant it the other way.

  Finally, with a joyous, breathless laugh, she pulled away. He made a sound, a needful moan deep in his throat, and tried to pull her back.

  She resisted, moving away another step. "Come on. Let's go."

  "Go where?" he demanded hoarsely.

  "The guest house."

  He stared. He looked stricken. Almost guilty. So strange.

  "Sinclair? What is it?"

  And then he was reaching for her, yanking her close again, kissing her some more. She sighed in delicious surrender, wrapping her arms around him, letting him have what he demanded of her, pressing herself close.

  That time, he was the one who broke the kiss. He tucked her head beneath his chin and held her so cherishingly, rocking from side to side a little, leaning back against the sink.

  "You're too trusting," he whispered into her hair.

  "No. This is right. You and me. This is … meant to be."

  "Too damn trusting…" he muttered again.

  She looked up, sought his eyes. "Is there someone else? Is that it?"

  His brows drew together. "Someone else?"

  "Another woman. A wife? A fiancée? A … live-in lover? Whatever."

  He shook his head. "No one. Not anymore."

  "Not … anymore?"

  "There was someone," he admitted. "It didn't work out."

  "What was her name?"

  "Willa."

  "Are you … still in love with her?"

  "Love?" He was frowning.

  "Yes. Love. Are you still in love with her?" Breath held, she waited for his answer, feared it wouldn't come.

  But it did, at last.

  "No. No, I'm not in love with her."

  The surge of relief Sophie felt made her realize how afraid she'd been to ask those particular questions. "I'm so glad," she whispered. "So very, very glad."

  He dragged in a breath. "Sophie—"

  She didn't let him get any further. "I just want to be with you. Maybe it's not logical. Maybe it's not even wise. But it is right. I know it. It's the rightest thing in the world."

  He only said her name again.

  She could see how much he wanted her, it was shining in those black eyes. So she lifted on tiptoe and pressed a quick kiss on his beautiful mouth. "Come with me. Now."

  "Sophie, I—"

  She stepped back. "I'm going to the guest house. And this time, I am prepared." By some miracle, when she said that, she managed not to blush. "Are you coming?"

  He neither moved nor spoke. For an awful minute, she was sure he would say no.

  But then, at last, he nodded.

  She let herself breathe again. And she held out her hand.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  « ^ »

  Her bedroom was like her living room: charming and old-fashioned. She had a big high bed with a carved headboard. A three-mirrored vanity. A heavy, bow-fronted bureau. Lacy curtains. Ferns.

  Sin looked around him, wondering how the hell he'd gotten there, thinking that there was no excuse, by his own hard and cold rules of who he was and how he operated, for him to be there.

  Yet he made no move to leave. Because he wanted her, a desperate kind of wanting that made no logical sense at all. And because she wanted him in return.

  Last night her doubts had saved them both.

  But not tonight. Tonight, the light of certainty shone in her eyes. Tonight, there would be no one saved. Tonight, she was ready. The conviction in her eyes held him. It beckoned him.

  Goodness that lured.

  She had the box of contraceptives waiting, right there by the bed. She gave him a sweet, rueful smile. "See?" she whispered. "Prepared…"

  He grabbed her then, and started kissing her again—hard hungry kisses. She sighed and kissed him right back, turning cruelty to sweetness.

  Baffled, bewildered, aching with want, he fell across that big old bed with her in his arms.

  And then it was all awkwardness, all rolling and sighing and pulling at buttons, tugging at sleeves. Within moments, they were both naked, their clothes strewn beneath them, more softness on that soft bed.

  Her sweet hands caressed him, her body called to his, a call he could neither deny nor refute.

  They fumbled together with the box on the side of the bed. He rose above her. And then he was in her.

  They both sighed. She looked up at him through those shining, trusting eyes.

  Fast, it was. And needful. Without wariness. Or foreplay. Like no sex he'd ever known.

  He kissed her on her white throat, latching on, sucking, and then moving lower to her full waiting breasts. She held him close against her heart, a heart that beat so strong and steady and sure.

  By then, somehow time had slowed. Everything. Slowed. They moved together, rising and falling, connected, sharing pleasure. Sharing breath.

  He remembered the stars last night. Running with her beneath the moon. The bed of green moss. The creek flowing on, forever, in that place that had been his. That place that shouldn't even exist anymore.

  Yet it did exist. And it had become theirs. She had said so.

  She said his name. His whole name. "Sinclair…"

  He lifted his head and looked down into her stunned, sweet face as her pleasure crested. Her body contracted around him, beckoning, urging.

  He surrendered and joined her, pressing hard. Holding. Forever. Throwing his head back in a silent cry as his release finally took him down.

  She moved in his arms, her gentle hand straying up to touch his brow. "Are you okay?" He made a sound in the affirmative. She sighed. "I'm glad."

  He stroked her arm. "How about you?"

  "I'm okay, too. Very much okay."

  "Good."

  She brought her sweet mouth closer. And he couldn't resist kissing her. She sighed some more, every smooth, supple inch of her eager and warm, soft. So fine and good.

  "Oh!" she said into his mouth. She could feel him against her, wanting her. "Oh…"

  He combed his fingers through the warm silk of her hair as the miracle began all over again.

  All through that night, he kept thinking—whenever he could think—that this would be all of it, that he would somehow get enough of her. That after this, it would end.

  But it didn't seem to be happening the way he kept thinking. Each touch only served to make the hunger stronger. Each release became a prologue to a kiss.

  The smooth terrain of her body beguiled him. His hands and his mouth wandered everywhere. And she welcomed each separate, yearning caress.

  Sometime near dawn, they finally slept.

  He woke before her. It couldn't have been that much later than when they'd dropped off. His mind felt clear and sharp as a cloudless winter sky.

  He thought, I will wake her now. And somehow, I'll tell her—

  But then she stirred. "Sinclair?" The word in his ear on a sweet exhaled breath.

  And he was lost. He told her nothing. Only reached out and put his hand on her smooth belly.

  She let out a small cry—of surprise and delight.

  He moved his hand down.

  "What do you do?" Her head rested on his arm and her legs were twined with his. "For a living?"

  Car
efully he told her, "I'm in property acquisition."

  She moved beneath the sheet, untangling her legs from his, lifting up on an elbow. "Real estate? You buy and sell property?"

  "Yes. For development mostly. Shopping malls. Office complexes."

  "You said the other night that you had business to take care of. Are you planning to buy property here in Nevada County."

  "Possibly. I'm … looking into the situation."

  A coiling lock of hair fell over her eye. She blew it away. "Where do you come from?"

  He stalled, saying nothing, trying to decide just how much to reveal.

  She leaned in closer and pitched her voice to a teasingly conspiratorial level. "I'm asking you where you live."

  He gave her the truth. "Los Angeles."

  She grinned, flipped to her stomach and punched at her pillow. "There. That wasn't so hard, was it?"

  She turned to her back, laced her hands behind her head and beamed at the antique light fixture overhead.

  The fine bow of her collarbone tempted him. He indulged himself, moving close enough that he could run a finger from one shoulder to the other across the ridge of that bow.

  She rolled her head to look at him. "Was it?"

  "What?"

  "Was it so hard?"

  "No," he lied. "Not at all."

  "You don't like to talk about yourself." Her tone had grown serious.

  Again, he thought of what he should tell her—at the same time as he finally admitted to himself that he was not going to tell her. Not for a while yet.

  He felt like a man under some sort of spell. A spell destined to end badly.

  And soon.

  But he would take what he could get while it lasted.

  She said, "It's all right. I'll get the truth out of you." Now she looked mischievous. "One little bit at a time." She sat up. "How about a ride? Before breakfast."

  "A ride?"

  "You know. On a horse." She tipped her head. "Or maybe you don't ride."

  "I ride. When I get the chance." It was part of his plan, to raise horses here. As his father had done and his grandfather before him.

  She gave a small laugh. "How well? Can I vouch for you with Caleb?"

  "You can vouch for me."

  The sheet she held at her breast slid down, exposing the upper edge of one pink aureole. If she didn't get moving soon, he wouldn't let her go at all.

  She must have seen the heat in his eyes. Her mouth went soft and her own eyes went dreamy. "I'm the general jane-of-all-work around here."

  "So?"

  "So, if we don't go for that ride now, we won't have time to go at all."

  He reached for her, and the sheet fell away.

  She sighed as he kissed her. "Maybe tomorrow morning…"

  He lifted his mouth from hers, just enough to whisper, "Maybe tomorrow morning, what?"

  "Maybe tomorrow morning, we'll go riding…" Smiling that dreamy smile, she pulled him down.

  "Sinclair Riker." Myra said, as she set a roast beef sandwich and a big glass of milk in front of Sophie. "I can hardly believe it. And he's come back to see what became of his home?"

  "Yep. And to look into doing business here, I think." Sophie picked up the sandwich. "This looks great. I am starving." She took a hefty bite. "Umm."

  Myra watched her chew for a moment, then pulled out the chair opposite her and sat in it. Sophie cast her a questioning glance. The older woman poked a loose strand of graying red hair back into the net she wore when she worked, then moved the salt and pepper shakers closer together in the middle of the table.

  Sophie swallowed the bite of sandwich. "Okay. What's up?"

  They were alone in the kitchen, but still the cook leaned forward and lowered her voice. "He spent the night, didn't he?"

  Sophie swallowed. "Myra," she said gently. "You are not my mother."

  Myra sat back in her chair and crossed her freckled arms over her middle. "Well, of course, I'm not."

  "And anyway, how would you know if he spent the night?"

  Myra uncrossed her arms and looked at the table. She must have spied a few crumbs, because she began blotting the table with her fingers. "Caleb ran into him down by the creek last night—and then saw him leave this morning."

  "And naturally Caleb reported right to you."

  "You know how he is." The cook rubbed her fingers together over her other hand, then blotted the table some more. "He just wants to protect you."

  "I don't need protecting. Honestly."

  "But…" Myra seemed unable to find the right words. She stood, went to the sink, and brushed away the crumbs she'd blotted up. Then she turned back to Sophie. "It's only … you just met him, right?"

  Sophie set down her sandwich. She pushed back her chair and went to stand beside the older woman. Myra had come to the Mountain Star in response to Sophie's ad for a live-in cook. She'd been the first applicant for the job. Myra had worked in restaurants, both at the stove and as a waitress. Her references had been impeccable. But more important to Sophie, Myra had kind eyes. Sophie had just known that they would be great friends. And she had been right.

  "Myra, remember how you used to worry, when we first started out? When we opened the campground and people who needed somewhere to spend the night began showing up?"

  Myra made an obstinate noise in her throat. "That was different."

  "No. I don't think so. You were worried that one of them might cause us harm. But none of them have. It's all worked out fine."

  "They're good kids, most of them. I see that now."

  "Myra, you give them food. To take with them when they go."

  "Only leftovers, you know that. In order not to waste them. And you did tell me to use my judgment about it."

  "That's right. Because I trust your judgment."

  "Well," Myra muttered grudgingly. "Thank you."

  "And now, I would like for you to trust mine."

  Myra's gaze skittered away. "Of course, I trust your judgment."

  "Good."

  "But … this is so unlike you."

  "No." Sophie touched her friend, very lightly, on the shoulder. "It's exactly like me. Myra, I…" She couldn't quite say the word love at that point, though that was what she felt inside. Still, her relationship with Sinclair was all too new, too overwhelming, to go putting labels on it. She finished rather lamely, "I trust him. I do."

  "But how do you know if he's a man worthy of trust? You don't even go out with men."

  Sophie laughed then. "When would I have time? You know how it is around here. I barely manage to fit in a few hours' sleep at night." And last night, not even that much, she thought, and had to hide a goofy smile.

  "Yes," Myra jumped in, "and that's what I mean. You're not … experienced. You're not careful. You're a perfect target for some fast-talking fortune hunter."

  Sophie made a show of rolling her eyes. "Some fortune. We run this place on a shoestring, and you know it perfectly well. Sinclair knows it, too."

  "How does he know?"

  "Because he has eyes. Because I gave him a tour of this kitchen. All he had to do was glance around. He could see I don't have the money to fix it up right."

  "Is that what he said?"

  "Honestly, Myra. He's not after my fortune. I promise you."

  "Then what is he after?"

  Sophie pretended to be hurt. "What? You find it impossible to believe he might just be after me?"

  "No." Myra's ruddy face lost its obdurate expression. "I don't find that impossible. You know I don't."

  "Good. And I'm not a total innocent. I've been around a little—back before the Mountain Star, when I had a Saturday night to myself now and then."

  "You've … been around?" The cook frowned.

  Sophie immediately regretted her choice of words. "Oh, Myra. You know what I mean. There was a time when I actually dated. And I was engaged once, before I came here."

  "That's right, I'd forgotten. That lawyer from San Francisco…"

 
; "The point is, I'm not a complete fool when it comes to the opposite sex."

  "Oh, I do hope you're right." The cook glanced at the rest of Sophie's sandwich, which still waited on the table. "You'd better eat that before the bread gets dry. And drink all that milk. The way you work, you need a good lunch."

  "Myra, are you all right about this now?"

  Myra sniffed. "I don't approve of what you're doing." And then she couldn't help smiling. "But I do approve of you." She sighed. "I suppose it's your life."

  "Thank you. For caring."

  "Eat your lunch, then."

  "I will."

  After she finished her sandwich and drank all of her milk, Sophie went looking for Caleb. She found him in the stables, wearing those high rubber boots of his, swamping out stalls.

  He looked up when he saw her, then went back to work.

  "Caleb, I think we'd better talk."

  He went on pushing his broom. "Maybe later. I want to get this job done now."

  "Caleb."

  He stopped, glanced at her narrowly, then set the broom against the wall. "What?"

  She found she didn't know how to begin. "Look. Let's go out to the big pasture." The big pasture was several hundred yards from the stables, to one side of the series of working corrals. The horses whose owners hadn't come to claim them for the day would all be there now.

  "Sophie B., I got my work to do."

  "It won't take long. I promise."

  Reluctantly he followed after her, out into the sunlight. They leaned on the fence of the pasture and watched the horses. The big spotted gelding Pretty Boy came over, lipped Sophie's empty palm, then ambled away.

  Sophie watched him go. "Sinclair is welcome here, Caleb," she said softly. "I … care for him."

  Beside her, Caleb grunted, a disapproving sound.

  "Caleb, I know what I'm doing."

  Caleb grunted again.

  "Give him a chance." She reached out, put a hand on his huge forearm. "For my sake."

  He actually looked at her then. "You think you know what you're doing?"

  She nodded. "I do know what I'm doing. I'm sure. In my heart, where it counts."

  "It's happened pretty sudden."

  "Things that happen suddenly aren't necessarily bad."

  He actually smiled then, something he did rarely, because his teeth were crooked and that embarrassed him. "I guess you got a point. I like things slow, myself. But that's maybe just me."