The Texan. Catherine Lanigan
He tasted divine, she thought as his lips slanted over her mouth. His tongue traced the edge of her mouth and then prodded her lips apart stroking the interior. She matched his low, sexual moan of surrender with one of her own. She thought she could almost feel their hearts entwine.
She breathed in his breath. She tasted his warm juices as she buried her hand in his nape. She could never allow this kiss to end. This was heaven. This was the feeling she’d always dreamed of, but never dared to admit to anyone, not even to herself.
He showed no sign of wanting to stop. Instead, his tongue probed more deeply, sending rivers of chills cascading over the hills and valleys of her body. Torrid blasts of desire mercifully extinguished the chills. As perspiration broke out between her breasts and between her legs, she felt herself begin to move to the rhythm of the hypnotic melody he was creating within her. She could no longer hear the sad refrain from the stereo system. She was listening with her heart. She could only hope he was hearing the same song.
Slamming, pounding against her rib cage, her heart told her that she’d never been this alive. The heat of his body matched hers degree for degree. His breath came in the same halting pants as hers. They were in sync with every nerve in their bodies. Angela knew that she would never again find anyone to thrill her so much with just a kiss.
Hearing nothing but the ancient crescendo their bodies played, Angela was unaware the music had ended. A rock tune began; its only purpose was to break lovers apart.
Reluctantly, his tongue bowed out of the dance with hers. His lips pressed her mouth with tiny remembrances of the passion they’d shared. Whirling through the galaxy, Angela found her return to reality jolting.
“Thank you for the dance,” she whispered pressing her forehead next to his as they gazed at each other.
“I hope your birthday kiss met your expectations,” he replied with husky tones.
“It was beyond belief.”
“Good. Then I’ll return you to your friends.”
Angela felt as if she’d been dashed with icy water. Her legs were still half numb, though she forced them to move off the dance floor. She blinked twice trying to remember where she was and what she was doing here. This was a dream. He was her dream man. Magic like this only happened in dreams. Her dreams especially.
Then she remembered Julia and Ilsa. They were still on the dance floor and hadn’t seen what had happened.
He held the chair for her again as she sat down and smiled up at him. She touched his hand. He’s real! I’m doomed! She sighed. I suppose there’s some solace in the fact that I haven’t gone crazy.
“Won’t you stay and meet my friends?” she asked.
He shook his head. His smoky blue eyes had changed color again—now they were steel gray. Somehow, he looked like a stranger. “I can’t. I have a prior commitment.” He kissed the top of her head. ″Sorry.″
Without another word he walked back to the bar, where he was met by another man dressed in a business suit. Angela couldn’t believe it. The man of her dreams had walked into and out of her life and she didn’t even know his name.
Matt’s startled expression didn’t deter Rafe from his purposeful dash to the exit. “Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“Are you nuts? She liked you. I could have sworn you liked her, judging from that kiss.” Matt said as he followed quickly behind.
″So?″
“So maybe she’s just what you need to snap you out of your depression.”
Rafe pushed the door open with the flats of both palms. “I am not depressed. I’m being smart.”
Matt pulled up short as Rafe came to a sudden stop. “Look, you can’t go around letting one bad experience dictate the rest of your life. Besides, this girl looked kinda sweet. Like a—”
“She’s a Realtor, is all.”
Matt noticed Rafe was beginning to calm down as he talked. “What’s her name?”
“Angela Morton.” Rafe dug in his jeans pocket for his truck keys. “I gotta get back. Feed the horses, you know.”
Matt glanced back at the entrance doors. “Have one more beer.”
“No, Matt.” Rafe’s eyes narrowed to icy slits as he started toward his truck.
In exasperation, Matt yelled after his friend. “She was an angel What’s the matter with you?”
Without looking back Rafe muttered, “Temporary insanity.”
Two
Nestled at the far end of Post Oak Lane beneath the shadow of the twenty-seven-story One Riverway building, a group of elegant, cosmopolitan townhomes had been built during the oil-boom days of the late seventies and early eighties.
As Angela hit the automatic garage door button and drove her BMW inside, she remembered the day she bought her home. She’d only been twenty-six years old when she’d discovered this building, with its open and spacious floor plan. It had been about to go into foreclosure. Though the Houston real estate market had been in the doldrums back in 1992, Angela believed enough in her own abilities and talents to know that, no matter what, she would always make the mortgage payment. Having saved the bulk of her commissions ever since she’d graduated from University of Texas with a business degree, she had not only negotiated the price to thirty thousand dollars below the appraisal value, she’d used just half her savings for the down payment, keeping the rest in U.S. Treasury bills. She knew that the overpriced homes in that area would never appreciate, and if she ever did eventually break even on her investment it would be due solely to her negotiating skill. She had also believed that living in a safe neighborhood less than ten minutes from her office was peace of mind money could never buy.
At the time, Julia, Ilsa and every other person with whom she’d had even the briefest encounter thought she was nuts. Four years later she’d not only moved the last of her family heirlooms out of storage, had them refinished and reconstructed, but she’d created a nostalgic blend of Old West and an early 1920s “prairie” look that suddenly was now all the rage.
Though the sweeping circular staircase might have seemed out of place with her Navajo rugs, chandelier, dark brown leather club chairs and off-white-cotton-slipcovered sofas, she redeemed it by ripping up the old white carpeting and installing honey-colored wood steps to match the same-hued wood on the first floor.
She remembered the two-story ranch house her great-grandfather, Daniel, had built for her great-grandmother, Evelyn. The open prairie had been a stark contrast to Evelyn’s extravagant surroundings in New Orleans. She’d let Daniel have his way with nearly all the house designs, except for the staircase. She’d told him from the day they were married in 1885 that she intended that he wait for her at the bottom of the stairs every evening before dinner, because she wanted to see his face light up the way it had when she’d walked down the aisle at their wedding. The staircase was his wedding gift to her.
Angela was the first Morton in generations to move out of that house. At the tender age of eighteen, she had lost both her parents in a private plane crash near Ruidosa, and had suddenly found herself responsible for not only all the funeral arrangements and the will, but also for a large mortgage that her father had taken out on the house to keep the cattle ranch going “until things turned around.” Angela realized she would have to sell the ranch.
Sentimentally attached to every rock, tree, bird and bush on the property, and to every brick and board of the house, Angela cried for weeks over the prospect of losing her family home. However, once she understood that her future depended on no one but herself, she slipped out of her teens and into adulthood overnight She listed the house herself, showed it to every prospective buyer and negotiated the final sale. Without a backward glance she packed everything down to the last dish,