Virgin Seduction

Chapter 11

Leila stared after the riderless mare, refusing to accept the evidence of her own eyes. Then her heart grew cold and she wheeled the panting roan sharply on the narrow path and raced back the way she had come. As she rode she called Cade's name and whispered prayers under her breath. Oh please, God, most merciful God, please let him be all right…

She found him without any trouble at all. Cade was only a short distance from the path, lying on his back on the ground with the upper part of his body raised and his weight on his elbows. Once she was assured- both by his position and the glare of helpless fury on his face-that her prayers had been answered, Leila's next impulse was to laugh. As she had laughed when her brother Rashid had been thrown from his pony once while they were racing on the cliffs overlooking the sea. Oh, how she had laughed to see the regal and arrogant Rashid flat on his backside in the grass! But crown prince or not, Rashid was only her brother. Cade was her husband! She should not laugh at her husband!

Horrified-and helpless to stop it-Leila clapped a hand over her mouth as she reined the roan mare to a halt. She was snuffling with mirth as she hurled herself from the saddle.

"Cade-what has happened? Are you all right?"

"Not…really." His voice sounded airless and strained, and she realized that he was trying to hide a grimace of pain.

She started to go to him, feeling even more terrible for laughing when he must be hurt after all. But he threw up a warning hand with an urgent gasp. "No-don't come any closer. There's cactus everywhere." His lips drew back over tightly clenched teeth. "I think I must have landed in a patch of it."

This time her hand flew to her mouth in time to muffle her horrified cry. "Oh, Cade-what must I do? How can I help you?" She was bending over him, having disregarded his warning and picked her way through the cactus to his side.

He shifted in an experimental way and then grunted. "Not…much you can do to help. Unless you think you could throw me over your shoulder and carry me home." He flicked her a glance and a crooked, embarrassed smile.

Cade Gallagher-embarrassed? Only this morning such a thing would have seemed impossible to her, but now…oh yes, she could see it very clearly. Her so very imposing, intimidating, commanding husband was embarrassed. Quite humiliated, in fact.

Realizing that, she felt a surge of feeling so alien to her that it was a minute or two before she understood what it was. Power. For the first time in her life, Leila felt…powerful.

"No, I do not think I would be able to carry you," she said as a strange, protective tenderness began to layer itself with the newfound strength inside of her. "But perhaps the horse-"

He snorted disgustedly. "Don't think I'm going to be sitting on a horse-or anything else-not until I get these damn spines out of my backside, anyway."

Leila smiled, gently sympathetic. "I was not suggesting that you should sit. But I think, if you were to lay yourself on your stomach across the saddle-"

"Hell no!" He reminded Leila very much of an unhappy child. "I'm not about to be carried home like a sack of oats-no way."

She lowered her eyes. "I am sorry. I was only trying-"

"Look-" He touched her cheek, and she felt a stirring of pleasure, understanding then that he was only gruff with her because he was so frustrated. "I told you-there's nothing you can do, okay?" But he made a liar of himself by adding, "Just…give me a hand up."

"Forgive me, but I must ask," said Leila, when he was more or less on his feet again and working himself carefully inch by inch upright. "If you cannot ride, how doyou propose to get back to the ranch?" Before he could answer, she touched her fingertips to her lips and exclaimed, "Oh! And your poor horse, will she be all right? Should I not go and look for her?"

He gave her a sideways, reproachful look. "My 'poor horse?' Hell, she's long back at the barn by now. Bibi." He snorted, then muttered, "Never did like that horse."

"What happened to her? I heard such a loud noise-"

"Lightning struck a tree," said Cade, and his voice was tight with pain as he cautiously eased his weight from one foot to the other. "Pretty close by, too. Didn't you feel it?" As if to underline the question, thunder grumbled and rolled across the grove of trees, and leaves rustled in the rising wind.

"Well, yes, but then I was too busy trying to control my Kamilah, here-yes, and you are my 'perfect one,' yes, you are…" Leila crooned, as the roan mare, perhaps recognizing her name, began to nibble at her hair. The mare had been waiting on the path-like cow ponies, all of Cade's horses were trained to "ground tie," or stand still when their reins were dropped to the ground-and she was growing impatient for Leila's return. "Kamilah was also very frightened-weren't you, my sweet? She tried to run away." Leila took great care not to mention the fact that she had not landed in the cactus.

Nevertheless, Cade gave her a dark look and grunted like a bad-tempered camel. "At least yours took off in a straight line. Mine went sideways. Next thing I knew, my butt was bouncing through the cactus." He paused as if listening to the words he had just spoken, then grinned crookedly at her, in a way that made her heart feel fluttery and soft. "This is probably going to seem funny as hell to me someday, but right now it hurts too damn much to laugh."

Leila didn't feel like laughing, either. She realized that what she wanted more than anything in the world was to put her arms around him-or at least touch his face…stroke and soothe him. But she sensed that would be the last thing he would want from her now. Still, she could not resist asking, in a voice husky with concern, "Are you…in very much pain?"

Then, of course, being a man, he must try to be heroic and act as though he was not. "Oh, hell-I'll live. I guess I' ve been in worse shape." He paused in the middle of hobbling back to the path to tilt his head sideways. "Been awhile, though."

Leila gave a small gasp. "Do you mean that this has happened to you before?"

"No, no-" his laugh was dark rather than humorous "-I was thinking of the last time my dad tanned my backside with his belt. I guess I must have been twelve."

"You do not mean-he beat you?" Her tender heart was appalled. "But…that is terrible!"

He paused to look down at her. Her heart jumped nervously, then began to beat with a quick and painful rhythm. "Hey, what can I say?" he said softly. "He was a drunk. I guess I never told you that, huh."

No, Leila thought, precarious and wondering. Betsy did, but you didn 't. And little else about yourself, either. And she held her breath and prayed that he would not stop now.

He lifted his head to gaze beyond her. "Actually, he was a pretty decent guy when he wasn't drinking. Of course, he was drunk most of the time. Although to be honest, on that particular occasion-from his point of view, anyway-I probably deserved the licking."

"What did you do?" Her voice was hushed; she did not believe he could have done anything that would deserve a beating.

He gave a bark of laughter and his eyes came back to her. "Took my bike apart. Brand new-just got it for my birthday. Don't know what it cost, but it had to be expensive. I'd been begging for one for months, knowing my parents couldn't afford it." He shook his head; his eyes seemed to glow with remembering. "I couldn't believe it when I went out that morning and there it was." He paused, but Leila did not interrupt.

After a moment he drew a breath that seemed to hurt him, but inside, not where the cactus spines were. And when he tried to smile again, there was only the slightest flicker at the corners of his mouth. "Anyway, when my dad came home that evening, I had that bike in a million pieces. Had 'em all spread out on a blanket on the floor of the garage. I thought he was going to kill me. Darn near did. Then he rolled all those pieces into the blanket and threw 'em in the back of his truck and drove off. Last I ever saw of my bike." He drew the pain-filled breath again. "That hurt worse than the licking."

"But, why?" Leila dared to whisper. "Why did you do such a thing to this bike you wanted so much?"

He shrugged. "I just wanted to see how everything worked, find out how it all fit together. I was going to put it all back. It's just the way I am-the way I've always been." He frowned, looking past her again. "My mom understood that, but for some reason Dad…" After a moment he brought his eyes back to her, and the pain in them almost made her cry out in instinctive response. Because, as before, she knew this pain was not caused by the cactus spines, but by memories carried deep in his heart. "Anyway, my folks split up a couple months after that. For years I thought it was because of me. Silly, huh?" He gave his head a rueful scratch.

Then, in what even to Leila seemed an obvious attempt to escape these "unmanly" emotions, he gruffly muttered, "Where the hell's my hat?"

No, she thought, I do not think you are silly at all. I think you are a very strong and imposing man with a little boy inside you. A little boy who has been very much hurt. And I love that you have told me these things, even here in the middle of a cactus patch. I wish that you would not feel embarrassed that you have told me. And I wish that you would not stop.

But all she said out loud was, "There it is. Wait-I will get it." And she ran to scoop up his cowboy hat from the path. "Now it is my turn to rescue your hat," she said in a bumpy voice as she held it out to him, and as she did, touched his eyes with hers. And with that look, with all that was in her eyes, she was offering her compassionate woman's heart to the hurt little boy she had seen in his. Offering her newfound strength to him as she might have given her hand to a child.

The look lasted for uncounted seconds, in a silence that seemed to shimmer with electricity, to rumble with tension like distant thunder.

Leila spoke at last, in a choked whisper. "We do not seem to have very good luck with hats, you and I."

And at that moment the rain came, rain such as Leila had never seen before. It fell with a great rushing sound, hard and heavy, straight down on their heads, as if someone had turned on a giant faucet in the sky. In seconds they were both drenched and gasping, and Leila's hat, which, unlike Cade's, was not meant to withstand all kinds of weather, had begun to wilt like a paper boat in a fountain.

"You sure don't," Cade shouted, and reached out to tip the sodden wreck of her hat backward and off of her head. "Look, why don't you go on-you know the way back to the ranch from here, don't you? Take the mare and go. I'll meet you back-"

"Are you crazy?' Leila shouted back through the curtain of rain, not even thinking that perhaps it was not the sort of thing a woman should say to her husband. "Do you think I would go away and leave you?"

"What, do you think I'm helpless?" Cade sputtered, looking very much like a stubborn donkey. "Go on- get in out of this!"

"Of course I do not think you are helpless. And I do not dissolve in water. This is only a little rain. So, we will walk home. It cannot be far."

Cade glared at her. The rain was already beginning to slacken at little, so he did not really have to shout at her the way he did. "Do you know that for a princess, you are awfully damn stubborn?"

"Yes," she said, flashing her dimples, "I suppose that I am." And she was surprised, because it was the first time all day that she had even remembered that she was a princess.

"Damn," Cade said gloomily, "I should have known." He flicked the light switch up and down again, with the same result. The power was out again. Naturally.

"It is not so very dark," Leila said as she slipped past him. "We can see quite well. It will not be night for several hours. By that time perhaps the electricity will be back on."

Cade made an ambiguous sound as he closed the door behind him. Then he stood for a moment and regarded her warily in the dim, shadowy light. He wasn't quite sure what to make of this new Leila, couldn't even decide in exactly what ways she was new. Her cheerfulness in the face of all the various discomforts and inconveniences he'd put her through was unexpected, maybe, except when he stopped to realize that he never really had heard her complain. Ever. Then there was the way she'd stood by him, out there in the cactus and the rain, when she could have been nice and cozy in a dry house. And he hadn't forgotten what had happened between them up there on the hilltop. God, no. But this "newness" didn't have anything to do with those things.

No…if he had to put a name to it, he'd probably call it self-confidence, though that commodity wasn't exactly new to her, either. She'd sure had no lack of it when he'd first met her. But this…whatever it was… was nothing like the unabashed cheekiness that had made her seem so young-and which he'd found so alluring-in the fairy-tale atmosphere of Tamir. He couldn't quite put his finger on why, but he knew this was different. And that his awareness of it, and her, was a vibrating knot of energy in the core of his body, like a miniature dynamo pumping out electrical impulses along all his nerves, keeping his senses charged to full capacity and tuned to her precise wavelength.

Those humming nerves made him cranky and snappish. "Yeah, well, it's gonna be tough to see to pull out these damn cactus spines," he growled, hunching his shoulders and heading for the kitchen like a man walking on eggs.

She pivoted as he passed her, then followed him. "How are you going to do that?"

"What, pull out the spines?" He was rummaging in the drawer where he kept the flashlights and other essentials, and didn't look at her. Though he could have gauged his distance from her as accurately as if he'd been equipped with his own personal GPS. "Only thing I know of that'll do the job is a pair of needlenose pliers. Like these right here." Having located his in the drawer, he brandished them at her.

"No, I mean, how are you going to do it?" She was regarding him calmly, all shades of black and gray in the murky light. "The cactus is in your back, is it not?" He glared at her, unable to think of a thing to say. She came toward him, and his skin shivered with goose bumps. "I think that you will need help to pull out these spines." And she had taken the pliers from his hand before he could stop her.

When she would have taken the flashlight as well, though, he jerked it away from her like an obstinate child. "No," he croaked. "No way. I'll manage. I'll…I'll use a mirror."

"And who will hold the flashlight?" He was sure he could hear laughter in her voice. "Will you grow a third hand?" Cade made a growling sound in his throat and headed for the bathroom. In his wake he heard a patient little sigh. "Cade, please do not be stubborn. You know that you cannot possibly do this by yourself. You must let me help you."

She stood in the bathroom doorway and watched him struggle with it, watched him strain to find a reason why she must be wrong. She did not know why it was such a struggle for him. That was why she sighed.

Daringly, she said, "Is it so difficult for you, to let a woman tend you? Perhaps I do not understand. Is this not allowed in America-in Texas? Is it not-what is the word I have heard-macho?" She dimpled shamelessly at him; whether or not he could see them in the dimness, he would hear them in her voice.

He must have, because the sound he made was only a half-hearted snort. He did not growl at her as fiercely as before.

But then pain hissed between his teeth. He had unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it open, and was trying to shrug it away from his shoulders and back. The flashlight in his hand was an encumbrance to him now, and she thought it a minor victory that he did not object when she took it from him.

She switched the light on and trained it on his back.

"How bad is it?" He was straining to see over his shoulder.

She hastily turned off the light. "Not so terrible as I expected." She imagined the lie balanced on her tongue like a soap bubble. "I will have them out in no time. But first, we must have some antiseptic, I think. There is something here, surely? A medicine kit?"

Cade braced on the sink and glared at his hands, anchoring himself in the familiar shape of them, dark against the white porcelain as he felt his world, his life spin out of his reach. He felt an odd sense of fatalism, like an off balance skier heading down a treacherous slope. One way or another he was bound to get to the bottom.

"Yeah, in the plane," he muttered. "Somewhere around here, too, probably, but I'm damned if I know where."

"Never mind, I think I have seen something…" Her voice, somehow both breathless and tranquil, had retreated back into the kitchen. "Yes-here it is. This will do, I think…"

Curious to see what it was she'd found, afraid he already knew, he met her in the hallway. Sure enough. There was just enough light for him to see the bottle in her hands.

"Hey," he said, in a voice ragged with outrage, "that's good bourbon."

"Yes-it is alcohol, is it not?" He watched as she unscrewed the cap and took a sniff. His jaws cramped and his mouth began to water. "Mmm, and it smells good, too. Much nicer than the medicine kind. Come-" she waved the bottle imperiously "-it will be better, I think, if you lie down."

Cade meekly followed her into the bedroom she'd chosen-the one with her things in it. His heart was thumping and the energy dynamo inside him was whining away at fever pitch. And this rushing noise in his head-was that the sound of his life-events, fate-racing by, just beyond his reach?

She stood beside the bed and watched him come to her, the bottle of bourbon in one hand, the flashlight and needlenose pliers in the other and her eyes full of mysteries. She drew a breath and when she spoke her voice was breathless still, but no longer the slightest bit tranquil. "First," she said-and he knew he could hear a tremor in it-"it will be necessary for you to remove your trousers."

And he felt a shivering, quivering, wholly unexpected desire to laugh when she abruptly turned her back and closed her eyes. He thought it was so like her. His virgin princess…

Oh, Leila thought, I really wish my voice had not trembled. She felt shaky all over, and she really could not allow that. It was not fear that made her tremble-she still felt that heady and wonderful sense of power, a kind of strength she somehow knew must be uniquely female. No-she shivered now with excitement Something new…something she had never felt before. She shivered and shivered and could not seem to stop.

"I think," Cade said in a muffled voice, "that's about the best I can do. Hurts too much to bend over…"

She opened her eyes and turned, and her heart felt as though it had lodged in her throat. He was lying facedown across the bed, looking all gangly and ungraceful with his feet hanging over the edge. His trousers were bunched around the tops of his boots. Except for that, and a strip of white cloth across his buttocks, he was naked.

She placed the bottle of bourbon, the pliers and flashlight on the bed and gulped a breath of air. "Well," she said brightly, "I told you you would need my help."

She snatched another breath. Then she firmly grasped one booted foot and pulled. She felt his muscles tighten and pull against hers, and in another moment the boot slipped off and dropped onto the floor with a thump. Light-headed with that triumph, she went to the other foot and quickly did the same. Then she took hold of both legs of his blue jeans at the same time and pulled them off, then dropped them on top of the boots. By that time her legs were trembling so badly, it was a relief to sit down on the bed.

Except that when she did, she heard the gasp of Cade's indrawn breath. "What?" she whispered, afraid that she had hurt him. Already! She had not even begun to pull out the cactus!

"You're all wet," he mumbled. "You'll catch cold."

Yes, she was. Strange, but she had not thought about her wet clothes at all. Leila was quite certain she would not catch cold-she was never ill-but clearly she could not proceed with this delicate business dressed as she was.

There was only one thing to be done. One by one she pulled off her riding boots and dropped them on the floor beside Cade's. Then she stood up. "I will only be a moment," she whispered, and sternly added, when he raised himself on his elbows to try and see what she was doing, "No-you must lie still. And…close your eyes."

Then, as quickly as she could manage with nerveless, shaking fingers, she peeled off her blouse and jodhpurs and let them fall to the floor along with the rest of the wet clothing.

Her flesh cringed with goose bumps as she sat once more on the bed, taking care this time not to let her clammy skin touch Cade's. Her breasts felt hard as marble, and hurt where they brushed the inside of her bra. She drew yet another deep breath-why could she not seem to get enough air?

"I am ready," she whispered. Cade's only reply was a mutter she could not understand.

She picked up the flashlight and switched it on-caught her lower lip between her teeth and exhaled carefully through her nose. She had seen men's naked bodies before in pictures, of course, and in Rome and Paris, and in the British Museum there had been statues. But there was a great difference, she was discovering, between flat paintings and cold bronze or stone, and a warm, vital male body. What astonished her most was an almost overwhelming desire to touch. That little valley low on his back, just above the waistband of his underwear, dark with a furring of golden brown hair. The longing to bury her nose and mouth in that valley, to feel the softness of his hair on her face…it was so intense it made her head swim. Even as a small child Leila had liked to explore with her nose and mouth, lips and tongue, smelling and tasting as well as touching.

And she would-she silently promised herself that. But first there was the impediment of the cactus spines to deal with…

They did not look like much, really, just a scattering of prickles not very different in color from his skin, and a few drops of blood. Some of the prickles had already come away with his clothing. There were a few on his shoulders and elbows and thighs, more on his lower back, and quite a few more, she was certain, imbedded in the white cotton that covered his backside. Her hand shook as she picked up the pliers. She set them back down on the bed and picked up the bottle of bourbon instead.

"Well?" Cade's voice sounded muffled. "What's the holdup? Let's get this over with."

"Be still," she said. Her voice sounded cracked and strange. Balancing the flashlight across her lap, she unscrewed the top of the bottle. The flashlight teetered as she pulled up one leg and turned herself toward him. Carefully, she poured a tiny amount of the liquid in the bottle into that golden nest of hair.

His muscles contracted and his spine arched. He muttered something she could not hear.

"What?" Breathless, she held the bottle poised…motionless.

"I said, "That's a helluva waste of good bourbon.'"

"Do you think so?" Leila tilted her head and regarded the bottle thoughtfully. Then she sniffed it again. It did smell good. Perhaps…She lifted the bottle to her lips and took a very large swallow.

What the hell-?Cade pushed himself up on one elbow to stare at Leila, who all of a sudden had begun to gasp and choke and wheeze as if she were dying. It took him about half a second to figure out that it wasn't lighter fluid she'd swallowed, but only a pretty good slug of his bourbon. He snaked out a hand and rescued both the bottle and the flashlight while he waited for her to get her breath back.

"But-it tastes terrible," she croaked when she could speak again, glaring at him accusingly, as if it were somehow Cade's fault. "How can you drink this?"

"It grows on you," he said, and automatically, because of his father, added, "Too much, if you let it." But his mind wasn't on bourbon, or the words coming out of his mouth.

Because he'd just realized what he was looking at, pinioned in the yellow circlet of the flashlight beam. Something that up to now he'd only dreamed about. Leila…wearing bikini panties and a lacy white bra and absolutely nothing else. It was a sight to fill a man's dreams…an athlete's thighs, smooth and sleek… womanly flare of hips… The waist he'd held in his hands up there on the hilltop seemed even more slender than he'd imagined, contrasted with the lush femininity above and below. And her breasts…It was all he could do to keep himself from reaching out, pulling those bra straps down over her shoulders.

Then, for an instant he wondered if she'd somehow guessed his thoughts, when she pressed a hand to her chest and her skin seemed to darken to a dusky rose. But he realized that she was stroking, not hiding, and making an odd little pleasure-sound, like a large cat purring.

"Mmm…oh," she murmured. "Yes, I see what you mean. It feels very nice, now. Nice and warm…all over inside me." She gave herself a shake and added with delightful primness, "Well-it is a pity that something that smells so nice and feels so good must taste so awful. But, perhaps it is just as well, since I do not believe it is very good for you." She plucked the bottle and the flashlight from his hands. "Now you must lie down and let me finish," she said, and gave him a severe look that had the opposite effect on him than she probably intended.

He obeyed her with a groan, somehow managing to quell the impulse he'd just had, which was to just say the hell with the cactus, and roll her under him and kiss her breathless.

He never knew how he got through the next hour, quite possibly the most intense pleasure and the most exquisite agony he could ever have imagined. And the cactus spines had very little to do with it.

Lying there on his belly with his mind full of the last image he'd had of her-lush, curving flesh and taunting strips of lacy white-first he'd feel a tiny zzt of pain, then the sweet burn of the bourbon, and then the far sweeter warmth of her mouth…gentle heat and drawing pressure…and sometimes, when she forgot to hold it back out of the way, the cool silky kiss of her hair. Between times, she sang to him in a sweet, soft voice, in a language he didn't know. And when she had cleared an area of spines large enough, she would pour more bourbon into her hands and rub him all over with it…stroking, massaging…kneading the sting and the ache away. That was the pleasure.

The agony was elsewhere. In his groin, of course, but in his belly, too, and the muscles of his arms and legs, his neck and jaws. Desire had taken over his body; it was a white-hot starburst in his brain. He was being consumed by desire. Sooner or later, he knew, he would have to do something about it, and when he did, he was desperately afraid he wouldn't be able to control the monster that was eating him alive.

And he knew the worst was yet to come. She'd worked her way down his back to the elastic waistband of his shorts. She'd plucked the last of the spines from the backs of his arms and legs. When he felt her fingers slip under that elastic he knew he'd endured all he could. He made a sound somewhere between a sob and a groan and tried to turn.

"No, no," she said softly, "you must let me finish." Gently but firmly she pushed him down. Even more gently she lifted his shorts away from his pricked backside, drew them over his legs and tossed them away.

And he found there was more he could endure, after all.

But just barely. He'd never felt so vulnerable. The cool air stirring over exposed skin, like a touch that never quite came, the cold wet tickle of alcohol between his legs and down his sides, and then-with all his strength he braced for it-her mouth. Yes, even there, laving, sucking… soothing away the sting. He could hear her quick, shallow breathing above the labored pounding of his own heart-for some reason, she'd stopped singing.

He knew when she'd pulled the last of the spines. He heard her take in a breath and let it out in a soft and oddly replete little sigh. He felt her weight shift as she set the bottle of bourbon on the nightstand. Then shift again. He felt the cushiony weight of her breasts as she bent over him. Relief and alarm slammed into him and his heart skidded and lurched out of rhythm. No.

Had he spoken? What did it matter? His body shuddered and shivered with adrenaline as he caught her around her waist. In an instant he'd pinned her, flat on her back, to the mattress.

The flashlight rolled away somewhere, but it spilled enough light across the bed that he could see her face staring up at him… the dark enigma of her eyes, utterly without fear, just tiny lines of puzzlement between them.

Her breasts heaved beneath his arm as she whispered, "You do not wish me to continue?"

"No." This time he knew he'd spoken, but it was in a voice he didn't recognize. "And it's not a matter of wishing. I can't let you."

"Why? I do not understand. Do you not like it?"

Looking up and away from her, he gave a soft, croaking laugh. Then he brought his eyes back to her, and was caught off guard by a treacherous, shimmering fog of overwhelming tenderness. Like that strange, protective tenderness he'd felt for her before, only this was much, much worse. He couldn't speak, but had to look away again, and take deep breaths and laugh a little the way men do when they dare not humiliate themselves with symptoms of emotion.

When he was able to look at her again, he lifted a hand to touch her face. Softly, with wondering fingers he traced the ink-black line of her eyebrow, the clean, pure sweep of her cheek and jaw.

"Don't you know?" He shrugged one shoulder and said it with aching simplicity. "You're a virgin."