Secrets and Lies: He's A Bad Boy / He's Just A Cowboy

Rachelle closed her eyes and let her hands explore every inch of his maleness. From his rock-hard shoulders to the scale of his ribs, she felt him. He kissed her eyes and throat and sucked from her breasts as if she were offering sweet nectar and when he, suddenly oblivious to pain, rolled over her so that she lay beneath him, she felt no fear. He parted her legs and hovered above her.

Only when he looked down and saw her completely naked did he hesitate. “This is wrong,” he whispered.

“It feels right,” she said, swallowing against a sudden premonition that what was happening could never be undone. That he didn’t love her, nor she love him. That she was a stupid teenager experimenting with something that could burn her forever.

Swearing at himself, he thrust into her and she cried out from the pain that seared between her legs. She flexed but he didn’t stop. He moved within her, gently at first until once again the doubts were chased away and all that she felt was the swell of him in her, the calluses of his hands stroking her breasts, the fire that ravaged them both. His strokes deepened and came faster and Rachelle moved with him, wanting more of him, knowing in her heart that nothing that felt so beautiful could be wrong. She clung to him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her hips arching up to meet his until, like an earthquake, a tremor rocked through her and she cried out.

He stiffened and threw back his head in a primal cry. As he fell against her, he tangled his hands in her hair and whispered her name over and over. She seemed to glide, like a feather on the wind, sinking slowly back to earth. She was breathing hard, but the soothing waters of afterglow wrapped around her as tightly as the frayed quilt and Jackson nestled beside her, holding her close, resting her head in the crook of his neck, telling her that she was like no other woman on earth. To her horror, a sob thickened her throat and tears formed in the corner of her eyes.

She didn’t regret their lovemaking, oh, no, but she did cry—for something lost and something gained.

CHAPTER FOUR

AFTER HOURS OF MAKING LOVE in the candlelight, Rachelle fell asleep in Jackson’s arms, certain that their love—for that’s what she told herself the emotions she was feeling had to be—would last forever. Midway through the night, she felt Jackson slip away from her, but only for a while. Soon he was back beside her, his skin cool, his hair smelling of pine trees, his lips pressing softly against her nape. She wrapped her arms around him and they slept, legs and arms entwined, one of his hands cupping her breast.

She didn’t think of the morning or the problems they would face.

But those problems were worse than she imagined. She was still sleeping soundly when a loud banging against the door dragged her into consciousness.

“Moore?” A male voice boomed through the house.

Rachelle’s eyes flew open. She was disoriented for a second and the room unfamiliar.

Jackson levered up on one elbow, his bare muscles tense.

She was confused. “Wha—”

Silently he placed a warning finger against her lips, cautioning her not to cry out. His eyes were dark as he slid off the couch and snatched his jeans from the floor.

The voice thundered again. “We know you’re in there. Sheriff’s department. Open up.”

Rachelle felt instantly cold all over. The sheriff’s department? Here? Searching for them? Panic and guilt tore through her. Had her mother called the police and hysterically claimed that her child had run away or been kidnapped? But how had the police tracked them down here?

Noiselessly Jackson tossed her skirt and blouse to her and motioned for her to get dressed.

She couldn’t move. The thought of the police just outside the door made her feel sick with fright. What would happen to them? She began to panic, but Jackson’s hand, strong and warm, settled over her shoulder.

“It’ll be all right,” he whispered, though she didn’t believe him. But it was nice to have him try to comfort her, and she flew into action, throwing on her clothes before anyone saw her nakedness.

Jackson, too, was trying to get dressed. Wincing against the pain ripping down his leg, he struggled into his jeans. His calf and knee had swollen and with the added thickness of his bandage, he had trouble sliding his wounded leg into the tight-fitting Levi’s.

The pounding on the door resumed, and Jackson, limping visibly, slipped to the back of the house, where he carefully peered through the kitchen windows. Rachelle followed him and watched his handsome face fall.

“No way out,” he whispered, cursing under his breath.

“Maybe we should hide.”

“From the sheriff’s department? They’ve got dogs, Rachelle.”

The thought of the police terrified her. Sirens, guns, lights, dogs… “But—”

His face was filled with compassion. “We’ve got no choice.”

She glanced past him to the window. “You mean they’ve got us surrounded—just like in all those crummy old Westerns?” she asked, following his uneven strides back to the den.

“That’s about the size of it.” His gaze swung around the room where morning light was piercing through the shades and the smell of warm ashes, tallow and sex still lingered. The quilt had slid to the floor but throw pillows were still piled on the end of the couch that had supported their heads. Rachelle’s throat tightened at the sight of this, their love nest.

“Moore! Come out with your hands over your head!” the deputy ordered, his voice hard.

“I hear you!” Jackson replied. “Give me a second.”

“Now!”

Jackson swiped his jacket from the screen and tossed Rachelle hers. “Big trouble,” he said, staring into her eyes so deeply that her heart turned over. “I’m sorry.”

“Not me.” She gulped, but tilted her chin upward. Panic seized her, and her stomach clenched into a hard ball.

“You will be,” he predicted as he twined his fingers through hers. He sucked on his lower lip for a minute as he stared at her, then, in a gesture she’d remember the rest of her life, he drew her close, fingers still interlaced, and touched his lips to hers in a chaste kiss that melted most of her fears. “I’ll never forget last night.”

“Me neither.” Tears threatened her eyes as hand in hand they walked to the front door. She felt dead inside, certain that her life—as she’d known it for the past seventeen years—was over, but at least she and Jackson were together, she reminded herself, tossing her tangled hair away from her face and holding her shredded blouse together. What a sight they must make.

“Comin’ out,” Jackson yelled as he opened the door with a decisive turn of his wrist. He and Rachelle stepped onto the front porch. It was early, just after dawn, and there was still a thick mist rising off the lake.

Three cars from the sheriff’s department were parked in the drive. Six officers, weapons drawn, were staring grim-faced at them, sighting their guns as if Rachelle and Jackson were dangerous fugitives who had escaped the law.

Rachelle thought she might faint.

“Let her go,” one deputy ordered, and Jackson released her hand as if it had suddenly seared him.

“No—“ she whispered, but was cut off.

“You’re Rachelle Tremont?” another officer demanded.

She nodded dully. What was this all about? They were trespassing, true, but the somber faces and loaded weapons of the officers reeked of much more heinous crimes than even a possible kidnapping charge. “Jackson?” she whispered.

“Move away from him,” a voice barked.

“But—”

“Move away from him. Now!”

Her spine stiffened in silent rebellion though she was scared to her very soul. With her throat dry as a desert wind, she moved on wooden legs, feeling the distance between Jackson and herself becoming more than physical; as if by walking away from him, she was creating an emotional chasm that might never be bridged again. His expression turned harsh and defensive, and he only glanced at her once, without a glimmer of the kindness or even the cynical humor she’d seen the night before.

Slowly Jackson raised his hands, palms forward into the air, and the officers rushed him. Two grabbed his arms, while another threw him up against the side of the house and quickly frisked him. Rachelle looked on in horror.

“Hey, man, I’m not carrying—”

“Shut up!”