The Protectors: Defending His Own / Guarding Jeannie

“You’re so damned stubborn.”

His lips covered hers with hot, demanding urgency, the need to override her objections forefront in his mind. But his body’s needs overcame his intention to bend her to his will. He didn’t want to force her to do anything; he wanted her compliance.

Deborah fought the kiss for a few brief seconds, then succumbed to the power of his possession, giving herself over to the feel of his arm around her, pulling her closer and closer, his fingers threading through her hair, capturing her head in the palm of his hand.

Her breasts pressed against his hard chest. His tongue delved into her mouth. Slipping her arms around inside his shirt, she clung to him, her nails biting into the muscles of his naked back. Deborah and Ashe sought to appease the hunger gnawing inside them, their lips tasting the sweetness, their tongues seeking, their hands laying claim to the feast of their aroused bodies.

Ashe felt hard and hot as Deborah ran her hands over his chest, across his tiny, pebble hard nipples, lacing her fingers through his dark chest hair.

Ashe reached between their bodies, separating the folds of her silk robe, feeling for her breast. He eased the robe off her shoulder, then the thin strap of her gown, exposing her left breast, lifting it in his hand.

When he rubbed his fingers across her jutting nipple, she cried out. He took the sound into his mouth, deepening their kiss. She curled against him. He dragged her onto his lap, lowered his head and covered her nipple with his mouth, sucking greedily. All the while he stroked a fiery path down her back, stopping to caress her hip.

The taste of her filled him, urging him to sample more and more of her soft, sweet flesh. He hadn’t meant for things to get so out of hand, but once he’d touched her, he couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t seem to control his desire.

Deborah’s breath came in strong, fast pants as she clung to his shoulder with one hand and held his head to her breast with the other.

They wriggled and squirmed, arms embracing, hands caressing, lips savoring, legs entwined. Losing their balance in the fury of their passion, they toppled off the window bench and onto the floor. Ashe’s leg rammed against the mahogany tea table, knocking it over, sending the tea service crashing onto the Oriental carpet.

Breathing erratically, Deborah glanced away from Ashe to the wreckage on the floor beside them. Reality intruded on the erotic dream. She shoved against Ashe’s chest.

He wanted her to ignore everything around them, to concentrate on recapturing the raw, wild need that had claimed them, but he saw the hazy look of longing clear from her eyes.

She pulled up her gown to cover her breast and lifted herself into a sitting position on the floor. Ashe rose to his feet, offered her his hand and lifted her, pulling her back into his arms.

“You’re Ashe McLaughlin’s woman. I think we just proved that it won’t be difficult for us to carry off the masquerade for as long as it’s necessary.”

He brushed her lips with his, then released her. Deborah staggered on her feet, but found her footing quickly, determined not to give in to the desire to scratch Ashe’s eyes out.

Damn the man! He had gotten his way. He had proved that she was just as vulnerable to him as she’d been at seventeen.

“I’d like for you to go now,” she said. “I’ll explain things to Mother and I’ll tell Allen what I think will pacify his curiosity.”

“There’s less than two weeks until the trial. I think we can pretend for that long. Then for another week or so, if Buck Stansell decides to retaliate for your testifying against Lon Sparks.”

“I suppose there’s always that possibility, isn’t there? If that happens, then this nightmare could go on forever.”

“Let’s take it one day at a time. We’ll get you through the trial, then worry about what might or might not happen afterward.”

Deborah nodded. Ashe glanced down at the overturned table, the scattered tea service, the spilled tea.

“I’ll clean up this mess,” he said.

“No, please.” She looked at him and wished she hadn’t. His gaze said he still wanted her. “I’ll take care of it. I’d like for you to leave. Now.”

He walked out of her bedroom. She stood there trembling with unshed tears choking her. I will not cry. I will not cry. She knelt down on the floor, righted the tea table and picked up the silver service. A dark stain marred the blue-and-cream perfection of the rug. She jumped up and ran into the bathroom, wet a frayed hand towel and glanced into the mirror above the sink.

Dear Lord. Her hair was in disarray, the long strands fanned out around her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes overly bright. Her lips were swollen. A pink rash covered her neck and the top of her left breast, a result of Ashe’s beard stubble. She looked like a woman who’d been ravished. Suddenly she felt like a woman who’d been ravished.

Tears gathered in her eyes. She laid her head against the mirror and cried.

In the week since they had begun their pretense, Ashe hadn’t kissed her again, indeed he’d barely touched her, except in front of others—a part of their performance as lovers. In another week Lon Sparks’s trial would begin. But when it ended, would the threats end, too, or would they turn deadly? Ashe screened all of Deborah’s calls and her mail. The daily threats continued, meaningless threats since Deborah never heard the messages or read the letters. Two more little gifts had arrived, both of these delivered by unknown messenger to her home. One, a green garden snake, Ashe had taken outside and released. The other had been more ominous, one he’d made sure neither Deborah nor Miss Carol saw. A newspaper photograph of Deborah, singed around the edges, a book of matches laid on top and the words “Your house might catch on fire” scrawled in red ink across the newspaper.

Nerve-racking threats to be sure, harassment to say the least, but not once had Deborah’s life actually been in jeopardy. Was Buck Stansell playing some sort of sick game or was he trying to throw them off guard, waiting to act at the last moment?

“It’s been a long time since you’ve been in the country club.” Carol Vaughn slipped her arm through Ashe’s. He looked away from the living room window where he’d been staring sightlessly outside while he waited for Deborah. He smiled at Miss Carol. “Eleven years.”

“The night Whitney announced her engagement to George.” Carol patted Ashe on his forearm. “She was such a selfish girl, but always so bubbly. Now she’s a very sad, selfish woman.”

“Are you trying to warn me about something, Miss Carol?”

“Do I need to warn you?”

“I haven’t been carrying a torch for Whitney all these years, if that’s what’s troubling you.”

“No, I didn’t think you had. You wouldn’t look at my daughter as if she were you favorite meal and you hadn’t eaten in a long time, if you were in love with another woman.”

Had he been that obvious? So apparent in his desire for Deborah that even her own mother had noticed? “Why, Miss Carol, what big eyes you have.”

“And sharp teeth, too. If for one minute I thought you’d hurt Deborah again, I’d have no qualms about chewing you up into little pieces.”

“And you could do it, too.” Taking her hand in his, he walked her across the room and seated her on the sofa. “I never meant to hurt Deborah. I made a mistake, but I tried to keep from making an even bigger mistake. I was honest with her, and I paid dearly for that honesty.”

“My husband adored Deborah. She was our only child. I didn’t agree with what he did to you, and I told him so at the time. But Wallace could not be reasoned with on any subject, and certainly not when he felt Deborah had been wronged.”

“I never made Deborah any promises eleven years ago, and I won’t make any to her now. None that I can’t keep.” Ashe heard Deborah’s and Allen’s voices coming from the upstairs landing. “I’m attracted to Deborah and she’s attracted to me. We’re both adults now. If things become complicated, we’ll deal with them.”

Carol nodded meekly. Ashe couldn’t understand the wary look in her blue eyes, that sad expression on her face. What was Miss Carol so afraid would happen?

Allen rushed down the stairs and into the living room. “Come see,” he said. “Deborah’s beautiful. She looks like one of those models on TV.”

Ashe helped Miss Carol to her feet and they followed Allen into the hallway. All three of them looked up to the top of the stairs where Deborah stood.

For one split second Ashe couldn’t breathe. He didn’t think he’d ever seen anything as lovely as the woman who walked slowly down the stairs, the diamonds in her ears and around her throat dimmed by her radiance.

Allen glanced up at Ashe, then punched him in the side. “See, what’d I tell you?”

“You’re right, pal. She’s beautiful.”

Deborah descended the staircase, butterflies wild in her stomach. How many times had she dreamed of a real date with Ashe McLaughlin? Now, it was a reality. Now, eleven years too late.

He stood at the bottom of the stairs, Allen to his left. The sight of her son at his father’s side tugged at Deborah’s heart. What would Ashe say if she told him the truth about Allen? Would he be glad? Or would he be sorry?

Ashe looked at Deborah, seeing her as if for the first time, all sparkling and vibrant, beautiful beyond description. How could any man see her and not want her?

The royal blue satin draped across her shoulders in a shawl collar, narrowing to her tiny waist and flaring into a full, gathered skirt, ankle-length gown. Her satin shoes matched the dress to perfection, and when she stopped at the foot of the stairs, Ashe noticed that the deep rich color she wore turned her blue eyes to sapphires.

“You look lovely, my dear.” Carol Vaughn kissed her daughter’s cheek. “Please give my regrets to Whitney. I’m sure she’ll understand that I’m not quite up to these late-night social affairs.”