Suddenly...Marriage! Page 9

  The air in her lungs temporarily stopped moving, and she began to hear a soft buzzing in her ears as her eyes held his. Cheyenne turned her head away, knowing that if she didn’t, she’d be lost.

  She cleared her throat and asked loftily, “So, come here often?”

  Was she afraid of him, or the situation? Or was there something else at play here, something he didn’t quite see? “Not often enough.”

  She bit her bottom lip, wishing she didn’t feel like a pancake getting singed on the griddle. The thought almost made her laugh. You can take the girl out of the diner, but you can’t take the diner out of the girl, she supposed. “Miles said you don’t bring women here. Why not?”

  He shrugged. “This is my retreat, I come here to get away from everything. I like being alone here. Most of the time, I have too many people around me.”

  “You brought me.” Unable to help herself, she turned to look at him.

  “Because there were people after you,” he reminded her. “This was the safest place I could think of.”

  The wind sounded like a woman scorned, howling and wailing at their door, rattling the windows. “Doesn’t sound all that safe to me.”

  An instinct as natural and as old as time itself made him slip his arm around her shoulders. “The island’s secure. Jack and I got the emergency generator running again.”

  She looked around. Except for candles and the fireplace, the house was still in darkness. “Then why are we sitting in the dark?”

  “Not the dark,” he corrected, his eyes on her lips. There was an ache working through him, an ache the like of which he hadn’t felt in too long a time to remember. He ached to kiss her, to feel her yield and give herself to him. To pleasure her and himself. “We’ve got the light from the fireplace. I thought we might conserve the energy in case we need it later. Besides, this is more romantic.”

  She knew she should draw away from him, now, while it was still possible. But somehow, she just couldn’t force herself to do it. “Seems like a waste, don’t you think?”

  He feathered his fingers along her cheek, watching as desire entered her eyes. “No, I don’t think.”

  What was she doing to herself? Why wasn’t she getting up? Moving? Running for shelter? “Grant, I’m interviewing you for my magazine.”

  He tried to remember when a woman had aroused him as much as she did. He couldn’t. No name, no face, came to mind. Every space was filled with her. “This’ll be off the record.”

  She could feel his breath on her face, feel that same nameless something stirring within her that she’d felt before when he’d kissed her, when he’d brushed against her. It was hot, urgent and more demanding than before.

  “I don’t think this is a good idea, O’Hara.”

  “Call me Grant.” He took her face in his hands, framing it. Drinking it in. “And I’ll let you know if I come up with a better one,” he promised as he lowered his mouth to hers.

  Chapter Seven

  It was happening again, only faster this time. Cheyenne could feel herself sinking into the kiss, her flesh tingling, her heart racing, her head spinning. As if every part of her was experiencing this sensation separately, reveling in it.

  And begging for more.

  Though the fire in the hearth was burning just as brightly as it had been a moment ago, the world as Cheyenne knew it disappeared and she was plunging, headfirst, into a velvet darkness that caressed her as it enveloped all her senses.

  There was nothing, no storm, no power failure, no house. Nothing but Grant and this all-encompassing, delicious sensation that he was creating with only his lips.

  Madness—nothing short of sheer, absolute madness. There was no other word for it. No other way to describe his reaction to this woman in his arms. He wanted to taste her, touch her, smell her, pull her entirely into his system until there was nothing and no one but her.

  It scared the hell out of him.

  He’d never felt like this before. Never felt this rabid hunger for a woman that consumed him, that left room for nothing else within him. Grant didn’t know what it was about her that undid him so. He didn’t have the ability or presence of mind to analyze why or what was happening to him.

  Hell, he was just barely able to hang on and keep from being thrown clear out of the boat as it took the rapids at a dizzying speed.

  His hands spanning her waist, Grant ran his palms up along her sides, skimming the curve of her breasts before he allowed the tips of his fingers just the barest of contact with her flesh.

  Her quick intake of breath almost drove him crazy. It was all he could do not to release the urgent, heated desire that was only a fragment of an inch away from overruling him and seizing control.

  Damn, what was going on here? What was she doing to him, making him come apart like this, as if he had no control, no say?

  He wanted her, every part of her, given to him unconditionally—to be worshipped and cherished. He would do, could do, nothing less.

  Grant trailed his lips along her jawline, skimming her cheeks, her eyelids, her forehead, weaving a fiery wreath of open-mouthed kisses that had Cheyenne quaking against him.

  That had him shaking in his shoes.

  Cheyenne groaned as his tongue probed and touched hers, tangling and leaving such a heady, dark flavor in its wake. As his hands resculptured her body, she could feel herself melting, feel the flames fan out from the pit of her stomach, from the core of her being, claiming her.

  Branding her.

  For him.

  A war erupted within her—a war between desire and sense, between reality and the urgent need to believe in fantasy. To believe that this was leading somewhere beyond tonight. She wanted to feel, oh so desperately wanted to feel to the full scope of her ability, no matter what the consequences.

  She’d never felt before—not like this, not like she’d been pitched into the eye of a hurricane.

  “I’ve never felt this way about a man before, Annie. He makes me feel special. Wonderful. I think he’s the one I’ve been waiting for. ”

  The words—her mother’s words—echoed in Cheyenne’s brain, cutting through everything like a serrated knife slicing through a stick of butter.

  Shaky, disoriented, Cheyenne pulled her head back, though her hands remained on Grant’s forearms. If she let go now, she knew she’d embarrass herself and slide, bonelessly, until she was a mere pool of heated liquid on the floor.

  She tried to suck in air as subtly as possible and failed on both counts. “I think it’s getting a little too warm in here.”

  Those were his thoughts—what he could make out of them—precisely. “We could go elsewhere.” Grant pressed a kiss to the side of her neck, and then another, and another. He could feel her yearning. His own leaped up another notch.

  Her head was reeling. Cheyenne wanted this so much, she could hardly breathe. But she had made a promise to herself, sworn that she would never follow in her mother’s footsteps, never give her heart to a man before he gave his to her. And not give her body to him before he committed to not just a night, but a lifetime.

  And Grant hadn’t said anything. Why should he? He was Grant O’Hara; his money and position talked for him. He didn’t have to commit, he just had to beckon.

  Why wasn’t there any air coming into her lungs? She felt as if she’d just completed a twenty-six-mile marathon run on a planet depleted of oxygen.

  “Or we could stay here and cool off,” she barely ‘whispered, wishing she could get some force behind her words.

  “I don’t think that’s possible.” He was as far from cool as he’d ever been. And so was she, judging by the flush in her cheeks and the shallow breaths she was taking.

  But he saw the resistance in her eyes, saw the silent struggle she was waging. And because something more was going on within him than he’d ever experienced before, and because its very existence unnerved him, Grant gave in more quickly than he might have had he been more sure of where this was leading.
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br />   With someone else, he would have coaxed a little, teased a little, and continued with the foreplay that had already begun. Instead, he raised his hands, lifting them away from her.

  “All light. All right,” he repeated, trying to get control over the emotions that were urgently battering at him, demanding release. “I’ve never forced myself on a woman yet and I don’t intend to start now. Although, hell, lady,” he added in a hoarse whisper as he dragged a hand through his hair, “you really make me want to.”

  Taking a deep breath, Grant pulled himself together. For a moment back there, he’d hardly recognized himself. All that fire, all that passion, and not a wit of sense anywhere.

  Leaning his back against the sofa, too drained to attempt to get off the floor, he turned his head to look at her. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but don’t you want this as much as I do?”

  Lord, was she ever going to be able to catch her breath again? She couldn’t look at him, not just yet. She didn’t trust herself to look into those eyes, to look at that mouth, and not capitulate. Not to him, but to her own needs. That was the part that really scared her.

  “I don’t know,” she replied, her mind still in a fog, “How much do you want it?”

  Had he misjudged her? Anger, so close to the other emotions that had been raised just now, scrambled to the surface. “Do you want me to map it out for you? To beg? Is that it?”

  She heard the edge in his voice, the barely suppressed anger. It gave her something to rail against, and galvanized her resolve. There was fury in her eyes when she turned them on him. “No, I don’t want you to beg. I don’t want you to do anything at all, least of all kiss me.”

  “It sure didn’t feel like that a minute ago.” Catching hold of his temper, Grant blew out a breath.

  What the hell was going on here? He was the levelheaded one in his family—the cool, calm and collected one. Right now, it felt as if his collectedness had all been blown to bits. “Not much of a honeymoon night, is it?” A hollow laugh punctuated the rhetorical question.

  She drew into herself, feeling, just for the briefest moment, like the child she’d once been. And hating him for making her feel that way. “Sorry if I’m not living up to expectations.”

  “Not expectations. Anticipations.” The very feel of her had made him want to sit up and beg like a trained pet. Anticipation of what lay ahead had filled him, stunned him, managing, in one incredible moment, to almost redefine him. He looked at her now, studying her face, studying his own reaction, trying to untangle the skeins and make some sense of it. He got nowhere.

  Grant shook his head. “You’re one hell of a piece of work, Cheyenne Tarantino. I can’t figure you out. You’re not a tease, or an iceberg.” Only the snap of anger had made him think that. He knew she wasn’t leading him on. He wasn’t sure just how he knew, but he did. He laughed shortly. “You give off enough mixed signals to send three cable companies scrambling to their schematics and their reference manuals.”

  She bit her lower lip, debating. She could still taste him there, on her lips. And if she closed her eyes, she could still feel the pressure of his lips as they worked over hers and systematically undid her.

  Maybe she did owe him an explanation.

  “I’m sorry, Grant. I made myself a promise a long time ago.”

  “To do what, drive men crazy?”

  “No.” Had she? she wondered. Had she driven him crazy? Maybe it was petty, but part of her took comfort in the fact that he had been affected as much as she had.

  Cheyenne folded her hands in her lap and stared into the fire. She opened her mouth, then stopped. No, she wouldn’t tell him like this, looking away, avoiding his eyes. He’d think she was ashamed of her decision, but she wasn’t. Just because it wasn’t easy to hold to right now didn’t mean she regretted her decision.

  She forced herself to look at him. “Very simply put, I made up my mind to wait.”

  Grant still didn’t understand. “Wait? Wait for what?”

  It wasn’t easy to say this, she realized. There was still a stigma attached. She’d been ridiculed for her feelings before.

  “Until I get married.” She didn’t give him the chance to protest and point out the obvious, though she could see it hovering on his lips. “Really married. Seriously promising ‘till death do us part.”’ Her voice took on feeling. “I don’t want a one night stand, or a six month affair, or a two-year relationship. I want forever.”

  He was silent for a moment, intrigued by the passion in her eyes. “That’s a tall order.”

  “Maybe, but it’s my order and I have to stick with it—” she pulled her knees to her and rested her chin on them as she looked into the fire again, her bravado temporarily evaporated “—no matter how I might feel at any given moment.” The rest was easier to say without looking at him. “I watched my mother fall to pieces every time a man left her life. I watched her slowly disintegrate over the years until there was very little of her left, just because a man wouldn’t care enough about her to stay.”

  Her lashes moistened and she blinked, annoyed at the tears that came, even now.

  “She gave each and every one of them all that she could—a desperate kind of love. And her body. Just to make them stay. They always left.” Anita Tarantino had been a beautiful woman once, before the world and the men in her life had worn her out years before her time. It had always seemed to Cheyenne like such a terrible waste. “That’s not me,” she said vehemently. “I’m not bartering my body in exchange for a warm but temporary body beside me at night.”

  She raised her head again and looked directly at him. “When I finally give myself to a man—” the declaration was softly uttered, but fierce nonetheless “—it’s going to be for keeps. I’ll expect nothing less from him.”

  With a sigh, she rose to her feet. “So, since what you have planned will undoubtedly singe my toes and scramble my mind, but not give me what I want in the long run, there’s no reason to continue.” Turning, she began to leave.

  Grant caught her by the wrist before she could go. Rising, he stood beside her and looked down into her face. Was she actually telling him what he thought she was telling him? This was almost too hard to believe. She was a beautiful, sophisticated and witty woman, and they were living on the cusp of the twenty-first century. How could she be a virgin?

  He held up a hand when she began to protest. “Let me understand this. You’ve never made love with a man before?”

  She was right. He was like the others—the ones who had made her feel like some alien because she didn’t find casual sex as common as saying “hello.”

  “Didn’t I just say that?” Annoyed at being put in this spot, annoyed with herself for helping him put her in this spot, her eyes narrowed as she glared at him. “You want your ego stroked? All right, consider it stroked. I’ve never let myself go as far as I did just now with you, and if there ever was a man I’d turn my back on my principles for, it would be you.” But, heaven willing, it wouldn’t be happening tonight. She pulled her wrist free, still glaring at him and damning him for the admission he’d silently forced from her. “There, satisfied?”

  He laughed, struck by how incredulous all this was: her declaration, her virginity and the fact that he still wanted her more than he wanted to wake up tomorrow.

  “I’m a long way from being satisfied right now, Cheyenne. You obviously don’t have much experience with frustrated men. So, if you want to expand your education, I suggest you take a good look.”

  But he smiled at her as he said it as if he understood her, despite what it was costing him. Understood, and perhaps even admired her. Something sweet within her felt as if it was blooming, while at the same time she wanted to cry from happiness, relief and a host of other things she couldn’t quite make out yet.

  Grant peered at her face, feeling an ache beginning to build all over again. He skimmed his knuckles along her cheek.

  “You’re really serious, aren’t you?” he asked softly.
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  It took everything she had not to turn her face into the simple gesture, into the hand that was caressing her. But if she did, she knew she would only start something that couldn’t be finished. If she was to remain true to herself. “I can probably put you in contact with Jeff Dolan if you’d like.”

  “A spurned suitor?” he guessed. Something small and ugly stirred in his chest.

  He was teasing her, she thought. “Someone I thought I was in love with. He was very attentive, very sweet, very masculine.” Which only showed I could be as blind as my mother.

  “I hate him already.”

  Cheyenne dismissed thoughts of Jeff with a shake of her head. “Don’t waste your energy. He thought that two months of being Sir Galahad entitled him to a hot time in the back seat of his car.” Her flippant tone belied the hurt she’d felt at the ugly names Jeff had called her when she fought him off. She’d called him a few herself on the long walk back to her house.

  Grant touched her hand in mute sympathy. “Sir Galahad turned into Sir Octopus?”

  She grinned, relieved that he wasn’t angry at her, that her personal beliefs hadn’t cost her the interview, or his company. Because she did find herself liking Grant O’Hara, maybe just a little too much for her own good.

  “Something like that. I found out later that it was all a well-laid plan—” she flashed a smile in response to the one that rose to his lips “—pardon the pun. His friends bet him that he couldn’t sleep with the class virgin.” She saw his smile fade as anger creased his brow. Maybe it was silly, she thought, but it made her feel a warmth, the kind of warmth that came from blazing fires on cold winter nights.

  “It was quite a blow to his pride when he couldn’t.” That had been her triumph, that Jeff hadn’t succeeded, that he couldn’t brag to his friends. At least he’d been honest enough not to lie, she thought.

  Cheyenne stopped. “You’re looking at me as if I should be sitting under glass.”

  “No,” Grant corrected thoughtfully. “Maybe on a pedestal, but not under glass.” He could understand the temptation Dolan must have felt. It was a rare thing these days to be the first man in a woman’s life. A rare and special thing. “You know that kind of thing is a double-edged sword for a man. While ‘deflowering’ you might signify a trophy for a more unscrupulous type, it puts a lot of pressure on someone with morals.”