callused, a direct and fascinating contrast to the soft eyes and tea rose complexion. There was a strength in her fingers that would have surprised him if he hadn't seen for himself how hard she worked. For reasons he couldn't fathom, he found it incredibly erotic.
“You've got strong hands, Suzanna.”
“A gardener's hands,” she said, trying to keep her voice light. “And I need them to finish planting this bush.”
He only tightened his grip when she tried to draw away. “We'll get to it. You know, I've thought about kissing you for fifteen years.” He watched the faint smile fade away from her face and the alarm shoot into her eyes. He didn't mind it. It might be best for both of them if she was afraid of him. “That's a long time to think about anything.”
He released one hand, but before she could let out a sigh of relief, he had cupped the back of her neck. His fingers were firm, his grip determined. “I'm just going to get it out of my system.”
She didn't have time to refuse. He was quick. Before she could deny or protest, his mouth was on hers, covering and conquering. There was nothing soft about him. His mouth, his hands, his body when he pulled her against him, were hard and demanding. The swift frisson of fear had her lifting a hand to push against his shoulder. She might as well have tried to move a boulder.
Then the fear turned to an ache. She fisted her hand against him, forced to fight herself now rather than him.
She was taut as a wire. He could feel her nerves sizzle and snap as he clamped her against him. He knew it was wrong, unfair, even despicable, but damn it, he needed to wipe out this fever that continued to burn in him. He needed to convince himself that she was just another woman, that his fantasies of her were only remnants of a boy's foolish dreams.
Then she shuddered. A soft, yielding sound followed. And her lips parted beneath his in irresistible and avid invitation. Swearing, he plunged, dragging her head back by the hair so that he could take more of what she so mindlessly offered.
Her mouth was a banquet, and he too racked with hunger to stem the greed. He could smell her hair, fresh as rainwater, her skin, seductively musky with heat and labor, and the rich and primitive fragrance of earth newly turned. Each separate scent slammed into his system, pumping through his blood, roaring through his head to churn a need he'd hoped to dispel.
She couldn't breathe, or think. All of the weighty and worrisome cares she carried in her vanished. In their place, rioting sensations sprinted. The tensed ripple of muscle under her fingers, the hot and desperate taste of his mouth, the thunder of her heartbeat that raced with dizzying speed. She was wrapped around him now, her fingers digging in, her body straining, her mouth as urgent and impatient as his.
It had been so long since she had been touched. So long since she had tasted a man's desire on her lips. So long since she had wanted any man. But she wanted now – to feel his hands on her, rough and demanding, to have his body cover hers on the soft, sunny grass. To be wild and willful and wanton until this clawing ache was soothed.
The sheer power of that want ripped through her, tearing through her lips in a sobbing moan.
His fingers were curled into her shirt, had nearly ripped it aside before he caught himself, cursed himself. And released her. Her shallow ragged breaths were both condemnation and seduction as he forced himself to pull away. Her eyes had gone to cobalt and were wide with shock.
Small wonder, he thought in livid self-disgust. The woman had nearly been shoved to the ground and ravished in broad daylight.
Her lashes lowered before he could see the shame. “I hope you feel better now.”
“No.” His hands were far from steady, so he curled them into fists. “I don't”
She didn't look at him, couldn't. Nor could she afford to think, just at this moment, of what she had done. To comfort herself she began to spread mulch around the newly planted bush. “If it stays dry, you'll have to water this regularly until it's established.”
For a second time, he gripped her hands. This time she jolted. “Aren't you going to belt me?”
Using well – honed control, she relaxed and looked up. There was something in her eyes, something dark and passionate, but her voice was very calm. “There doesn't seem to be much point in that. I'm sure you're of the opinion that a woman like me would be... needy.”
“I wasn't thinking about your needs when I kissed you. It was a purely selfish act, Suzanna. I'm good at being selfish.”
Because his grip was light, she slipped her hands from under his. “I'm sure you are.” She brushed her palms on her thighs before she rose. The only thought in her head was of getting away, but she made herself load the wheelbarrow calmly. Until he gripped her arm and whirled her around.
“What the hell is this?” His eyes were stormy, his voice as rough as his hands. He wanted her to rage at him – needed it to soothe his conscience. “I all but took you on the ground, without giving a hell of a lot of consideration to whether you'd have liked it or not, and now you're going to load up your cart and go away?”
She was very much afraid she would have liked it. That was why it was imperative that she stay very calm and very controlled. “If you want to pick a fight or a casual lover. Holt, you've come to the wrong person. My children are expecting me home, and I'm very tired of being grabbed.”
Yes, her voice was calm, he thought, even firm, but her arm was trembling lightly under his hold. There was something here, he realized, some secrets she held behind those sad and beautiful eyes. The same stubbornness that had had him pursuing his gold shield made it essential that he discover them.
“Grabbed in general, or just by me?”
“You're the one doing the grabbing.” Her patience was wearing thin. The Calhoun temper was always difficult to control. “I don't like it.”
“That's too bad, because I have a feeling I'm going to be doing a lot more of it before we're through.”
“Maybe I haven't made myself clear. We are through.” She shook loose and grabbed the handles of the wheelbarrow.
He simply put his weight on it to stop her. He wasn't sure if she realized she'd just issued an irresistible challenge. His grin came slowly. “Now you're getting mad.”
“Yes. Does that make you feel better?”
“Quite a bit. I'd rather have you claw at me than crawl off like a wounded bird.”
“I'm not crawling anywhere,” she said between her teeth. “I'm going home.”
“You forgot your shovel,” he told her, still grinning.
She snatched it up and tossed it into the wheelbarrow with a clatter. “Thanks.”
“You're welcome.”
He waited until she'd gone about ten feet. “Suzanna.”
She slowed but didn't stop, and tossed a look over her shoulder. “What?” “I'm sorry.”
Her temper eased a bit as she shrugged. “Forget it.”
“No.” He dipped his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I'm sorry I didn't kiss you like that fifteen years ago.”
Swearing under her breath, she quickened her pace. When she was out of sight, he glanced back at the bush. Yeah, he thought, he was sorry as hell, but planned to make up for lost time.
She needed some time to herself. That wasn't a commodity Suzanna found very often in a house as filled with people as The Towers. But just now, with the moon on the rise and the children in bed, she took a few precious moments alone.
It was a clear night, and the heat of the day had been replaced by a soft breeze that was scented with the sea and roses. From her terrace she could see the dark shadow of the cliffs that always drew her. The distant murmur of water was a lullaby, as sweet as the call of a night bird from the garden.
Tonight it wouldn't ease her into sleep. No matter how tired her body was, her mind was too restless. It didn't seem to matter how often she told herself she had nothing to worry about. Her children were safely tucked into bed, dreaming about the day's adventures. Her sisters were happy. Each one of them had found her place in the world, just as each one of them had found a mate who loved her for who and what she was. Aunt Coco was happy and healthy and looking forward to the day when she would become head chef of The Towers Retreat.
Her family, always Suzanna's chief concern, was content and settled. The Towers, the only real home she'd
