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“I’m your wife. You’re my husband. Why shouldn’t we…” She ran her hand down his neck, along his shoulder and down to one flat, male nipple. When she smoothed her fingertips across it, she was surprised—and pleased—to see him flinch at the sensation.
He trapped her hand under his, holding her palm to his chest, and Margie could have sworn she felt heat searing her skin from the contact. She loved touching him. Loved the feel of his hard, warm body under her hands. Loved knowing that she could push this incredibly strong man to the breaking point.
“It’s asking for trouble, that’s why,” he told her, his gaze locked with hers, as if he could scare her off by looking especially intimidating.
It didn’t work.
She lifted his hand, placed it on her breast and held it there. “It’s not trouble I want, Hunter. It’s you.”
Margie watched him fight an inner battle and knew she’d won when his fingers moved on her breast, tugging at her nipple, rubbing the tip in quick strokes.
Shaking his head, he muttered thickly, “I want you, too. So God help us both.”
He took her nipple into his mouth then and suckled her hard, deep, drawing on her breast as if his life depended on it. Margie sighed, arched into his mouth and bit down on her bottom lip as his mouth worked her tender skin feverishly. Her body trembled and quaked in eager response. She cupped one hand behind his head to hold him in place, loving the feel of his mouth on her. Loving what he could do to her with a kiss, a sigh, a touch.
Loving him.
Yes, she thought again, lowering her gaze to watch him suckle her, that was one thing she couldn’t mention. And wouldn’t. She loved him. This brash, arrogant, amazing man had stolen into her heart, and Margie knew she’d never get him out again. Knew she didn’t want to.
Hunter wasn’t interested in love, Margie told herself, even as his body and mouth took her back to that lush place of pure sensation. She knew he still didn’t really trust her and was anxious for this month and their “marriage” to be over. A man like Hunter Cabot would never love a woman like her—their worlds were far too different for any kind of bridge to span them.
So Margie decided to do all she could to make the most of what time she had with him. She wanted all of the memories she could build in the next few weeks. She wanted to be able to remember with perfect clarity how it felt to have Hunter Cabot’s hands and mouth on her.
She wanted the feel of his skin on hers imprinted on her mind so that it would never fade.
Reaching down, she curled her fingers around his hard, thick body and felt a wash of heat fill her as he inhaled sharply. Sliding her fingers up and down his shaft, she felt the power inside him and wanted it inside her. How had she ever lived without knowing the feel of him. How would she ever live without him?
No.
She pushed that thought aside and reminded herself that now was the only important time. She squeezed gently, deliberately, and he hissed in another breath through gritted teeth.
“Now. Need you now,” he murmured and pushed her over onto her stomach. His hands swept up and down her back, over her behind, cupping, kneading, and with every touch, Margie quivered like a too-taut bowstring about to snap.
Wicked, she thought wildly, turning her head on the pillow, feeling him slide his long, hard body over hers. Every caress fed the fires inside; every stroke of his fingers made her want more.
Then he lifted her hips, kneeled behind her and used his fingertips to open her for him. Her heat welcomed that first touch, and she whimpered his name as she closed her fists around the cool, silk sheets beneath her.
He pushed himself into Margie so deeply, so completely, that she gasped and shook with reaction. In this position, she felt so much more, felt him invade her higher and more fully than before. She pushed back against him as he rocked forward, and with every thrust, she felt him stake his claim on her more thoroughly.
Again and again, he pushed himself into her only to retreat and thrust harder the next time. She heard his breathing labor, felt his tension climb to the heights hers had reached, and still she wanted more of him. As he thrust into her, he leaned over her, braced himself on one hand and used the other to rub her center as his lips and tongue moved down her spine.
“Oh…my…”
When Margie’s body shattered, dissolving into tremor after tremor of sensation, she cried out his name and was only dimly aware of him reaching his own release, while emptying himself into her depths.
Finally, Hunter rolled to one side of her, drew her in close and Margie snuggled into him, content in the circle of his arms. His breath dusted her hair, and she sighed, absolutely happy for the first time in her life.
“Better than Bali?” he asked.
Surprised, she tipped her head back to look up at him. “You heard about that?”
He grinned and her heart turned over. “Are you kidding? It’s the first thing my friends ribbed me about.”
“Oh, God. How embarrassing.” She dropped one hand over her eyes, then peeked up at him from between her fingers. “At least I told everyone how good you were.”
“Yeah.” He chuckled. “Thanks for that. So, let’s hear it. Was this better than Bali?”
He was teasing her. There was a light of humor in his eyes she’d never seen before, and Margie played along, enjoying this moment almost as much as she’d enjoyed the previous ones.
“Well,” she said, “I’m not sure. After all, a man on his honeymoon goes all out. Now that you’re just an old married man…”
He pulled her over to lie on top of him, then smoothed her hair back from his face with his hands. “You should know better than to challenge a Cabot.”
An hour later, Margie was thoroughly convinced that Hunter Cabot was every bit as good in real life as he’d been on her fantasy honeymoon.
The next couple of weeks flew by.
Hunter slipped into a routine he hadn’t seen coming and didn’t really mind. He was used to being active and now that his wound was mostly healed, he saw no reason to change that.
Every morning before dawn, he tore himself from Margie’s arms, left her sleeping in the bed that hadn’t seen a pillow wall since that first incredible night together and went for a run.
The roads were familiar. He’d run them as a high school athlete, he’d run them to prepare for boot camp and he’d run them on those infrequent trips home since joining the Navy. He knew every field he passed, every house with lamplight just beginning to glow through the windows, every turn and curve in the road. It was all as familiar to him as his own face in the mirror.
In the silence, Hunter’s mind was filled with thoughts he was normally able to dismiss or at least shove aside. But on narrow country roads, where his only company was the occasional bird sweeping across a brilliantly colored sky, there was too much time to think and no way to escape it.
He’d missed it here. For so long, he’d thought of Springville and the Cabot dynasty as a trap; he’d refused to allow himself to see the beauty of the place. The near blissful quiet. He’d immersed himself in the adventure, the risk, the duty of a job he believed in, and had avoided all thoughts about the place that would always be home to him.
Now, though, this place was calling to him so deeply that the call to adventure was muffled inside him.
And time was almost up.
Soon, he’d be returning to base. Back to the job that had been his life for more years than he cared to think about. Since he was recovered, he would be assigned to missions with his team again, and as that thought registered, he waited for the rush of adrenaline-tinged expectation he always felt.
But it didn’t come.
Frowning, he kept running, the sounds of his footsteps like a disembodied heartbeat thundering out around him.
It was Margie, he told himself. He’d allowed himself to be drawn into an affair he’d known from the first would be nothing but a mistake. And yet he couldn’t really regret it, even now. Even knowing that he’d be leaving, a divorce would be filed and he would, most likely, never see her again.
His scowl deepened and his pace quickened. His breath charged in and out of his lungs, and sweat rolled down his bare back. Where would she go? What would she do? And how would he ever know if she was all right?
“Of course she’ll be all right,” he muttered, disgusted with himself. “She’ll have five million reasons to be all right.”
There. Reminding himself that she was doing this for the money made him feel less like a bastard for using her. Because, really, who was using whom?
He didn’t even hear the car come up behind him until it paced him. Hunter didn’t stop, just smiled at the man rolling down his window to talk to him. “Morning, Sheriff.”
“Can take the man out of the Navy, huh?” Kane Hackett said with a grin. “Figured I’d find you out here running. You always did like this road for training.”
Hunter kept going, sparing his old friend a derisive glance. “And it figures that you’re driving the road, not running it. Out of shape, are we?”
One dark eyebrow winged up. “Not so’s you’d notice.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Have to go see Simon,” Kane said, his smile fading into a worried frown. “Figured it’d be best if you were with me when I did.”
That got Hunter’s attention. He stopped running, bent in half and took a few deep breaths before asking, “What’s going on?”
“There was a fire at the Cabot building in town last night,” Kane said.
“Fire?” Hunter grabbed the edge of the car window. “Anyone hurt?”
“No.” Kane shook his head. “The night cleaning crew went in; apparently one of ’em turned on a stove in the break room to make some tea. Left a towel too close to the burner.”
“Damn it.”
“That about covers it.” Kane waved him over to the passenger side door. “There’s damage to the first two floors, though, and I thought, well, Simon had the heart attack last year—”
Hunter was already moving. He climbed into the black-and-white SUV, buckled his seat belt and told his friend to drive.
“Well, how bad is it?” Simon wanted to know an hour later. The old man wore a faded blue robe, and his white hair was standing out around his head like cotton swabs on end.
“Kane took me by to see it for myself before he brought me back here to tell you,” Hunter said, remembering that Kane had left right after delivering the news, leaving it up to Hunter and Margie to watch out for Simon’s blood pressure.
Now as Margie poured Simon’s coffee, Hunter watched his grandfather warily for any sign the old man was going to clutch his chest and drop like a rock.
“And…?” Not dropping. Instead, the old man wanted answers, not coddling.
Hunter gave him a wry grin. Apparently, Simon was a lot tougher than any of them knew. “And, it’s a mess. The fire chief says no structural damage, but there’s plenty of smoke and water damage to make up for it. Most of the files are on the upper floors, so that’s good. We didn’t lose much.”
One corner of Simon’s mouth tilted upward. “No,” he said slowly, “I guess we didn’t.”
“Simon…” Hunter sighed. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Freudian slip, huh?” Simon looked pretty pleased for a man who’d just been told his company headquarters had nearly burned down.
Hunter hadn’t meant “we” the way Simon had taken it. After all, the company wasn’t his baby. He was a SEAL. But touring through the damaged building with Kane at his side, Hunter had actually caught himself thinking about the reconstruction. And what changes might be made. After all, if they were going to have to do some remodeling, there was no reason they couldn’t do some updating as well.
Such as, for instance, making the break room larger. The area was so small now that it would comfortably hold only two or three people. The day care center Margie had instituted also had been ruined, since the room set aside for it was on the ground floor. Now that they were redoing it, he thought they should make it more kid friendly than the old room had been.
And the workers’ cubicles that were now twisted and melted should simply be tossed. Why lock people away into separate little stalls? It’s not as if cubicles gave people the sense of having their own little offices. All they really did was separate them from their coworkers, and what was the point in that?
“Hunter?” Simon prodded, “What’re you thinking?”
What was he thinking? Scraping one hand across the top of his head, Hunter muttered, “Nothing. No thanks, Margie. No coffee.” He put out one hand to stop the cup she held out to him. “All I want now is a shower.”
Then he left the room fast before his own thoughts could start marching in time with Simon’s.
“Well, well, well. Did you hear him?” Simon chuckled and took a sip of coffee that was mostly 2 percent milk.
“He doesn’t want to stay, Simon,” Margie told him. “Nothing you can say will change his mind. You know that.”
The old man’s white eyebrows lifted high on his forehead and wiggled around like two worms on hooks. “It’s not what I can say that’ll keep him here, Margie, honey—it’s you. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’re looking back.”
“Simon, don’t play Cupid,” she warned, not wanting the man she loved like a grandfather to be as heart-broken as she was going to be when this all ended.
He only chuckled again. “You’ll see…”
She sighed, took a sip of her own coffee and slumped back into the chair closest to Simon’s. Margie had seen the hunted expression in Hunter’s eyes before he left the room and knew that he was already regretting getting as involved as he had in the fire investigation. He didn’t want the life that was waiting for him here in Springville.
He didn’t want her.
Not beyond the tumbled hours they spent together in his bed, anyway. There at least, she knew he wanted her. Felt it in his every touch, his kiss. In the way he held her during the night and the way he turned to her when nightmares plagued him. But she also knew that at the end of the month, he would leave and let her walk out of his life.
Just acknowledging that sent a spear of pain darting through her heart, and Margie didn’t know how she would survive when that pain was her constant companion.
Chapter Eight (#ulink_d4e9fd59-8dc3-5dc9-867c-fa2d4dd1f811)
Hunter didn’t mind helping out, he told himself a few days later. After all, he was here, wasn’t he? And there was just so damn much to do. There was the construction at the company headquarters to look after, and there was Simon’s birthday party. Since Margie couldn’t really be expected to do it all, and since he didn’t have a clue about how to arrange a blowout party, Hunter had taken over the work on the building in town.
He met with the contractor, talked to the employees to get their ideas and helped to draw up plans for the remodeling. Now, sitting in Simon’s study, with blue-prints spread out in front of him on the desk, he asked himself how he’d managed to get sucked so far into the life of the town.
His grandfather was upstairs, taking a nap, Margie was off in the kitchen talking to Simon’s cook about the caterer’s party menus and Hunter was sitting behind the very desk he’d spent most of his life avoiding.
“So, how’d you get here?” he muttered and poured himself a glass of scotch.
“We turned left into that freeway out front you call a driveway,” a familiar voice said, answering the rhetorical question Hunter had posed.
“As long as you’re pourin’, brudda,” another voice told him, “get two more glasses out.”
Only one man Hunter knew used island slang in every conversation just to make sure people knew he was a proud, full-blooded Hawaiian. Hunter was grinning as he stood up to face two members of his SEAL team. Jack Thorne, “JT,” his team leader, and Danny “Hula” Akiona were standing in the open doorway of the study.
“Where’d you guys come from?” Hunter asked as he came around the desk, hand out to welcome his friends.
JT was tall and blond with sharp blue eyes that never missed anything. Hula was just as tall, with black hair, black eyes and a smart-ass outlook on life. Damn, Hunter’d missed them both.
“We were on our way up to Frisco for a little R and R,” Hula was saying. “Thought we’d stop and see how you were healing up. Didn’t know we’d find you sitting in a mansion.”
Hunter winced. Exactly why he’d never told his friends about his background.
Hula sniffed the air, then slid his gaze to where the decanter of scotch sat on the edge of the desk. “Hmm. Thirty years old. Single malt.”
Hunter laughed. “How the hell do you do that?”
“It’s a gift.” Hula shrugged, looked around the immense study, then shifted a look back at his friend. “So how come you never told us you were stinkin’ rich?”
JT frowned at him. “Nice. Real subtle.”
