Paper Husband. Diana Palmer
obviously recalling the other times he’d had to rescue her.
“The fence was down,” she said belligerently, blowing a strand of blond hair out of her mouth. “And that stupid fence tool needs hands like a wrestler’s to work it!”
“Sure it does, honey,” he drawled, crossing his forearms over the pommel. “Fences don’t know beans about the women’s liberation movement.”
“Don’t you start that again,” she muttered.
His mouth tugged up. “Aren’t you in a peachy position to be throwing out challenges?” he murmured dryly, and his dark eyes saw far too much as they swept over her body. For just an instant, something flashed in them when they came to rest briefly on the revealed curves of her breasts.
She moved uncomfortably. “Come on, Hank, get me loose,” she pleaded, wriggling. “I’ve been stuck here since nine o’clock and I’m dying for something to drink. It’s so hot.”
“Okay, kid.” He swung out of the saddle and threw Cappy’s reins over his head, leaving him to graze nearby. He squatted by her trapped legs. His worn jeans pulled tight against the long, powerful muscles of his legs and she had to grit her teeth against the pleasure it gave her just to look at him. Hank was handsome. He had that sort of masculine beauty about him that made even older women sigh when they saw him. He had a rider’s lean and graceful look, and a face that an advertising agency would have loved. But he was utterly unaware of his own attractions. His wife had run out on him ten years before, and he’d never wanted to marry anyone else since the divorce. It was well-known in the community that Hank had no use for a woman except in one way. He was discreet and tight-lipped about his liaisons, and only Dana seemed to know that he had them. He was remarkably outspoken with her. In fact, he talked to her about private things that he shared with nobody else.
He was surveying the damage, his lips pursed thoughtfully, before he began to try to untangle her from the barbed wire with gloved hands. Hank was methodical in everything he did, single-minded and deliberate. He never acted rashly. It was another trait that didn’t go unnoticed.
“Nope, that won’t do,” he murmured and reached into his pocket. “I’m going to have to cut this denim to get you loose, honey. I’m sorry. I’ll replace the jeans.”
She blushed. “I’m not destitute yet!”
He looked down into her dark blue eyes and saw the color in her cheeks. “You’re so proud, Dana. You’d never ask for help, not if it meant you starved to death.” He flipped open his pocketknife. “I guess that’s why we get along so well. We’re alike in a lot of ways.”
“You’re taller than I am, and you have black hair. Mine’s blond,” she said pointedly.
He grinned, as she knew he would. He didn’t smile much, especially around other people. She loved the way his eyes twinkled when he smiled.
“I wasn’t talking about physical differences,” he explained unnecessarily. He cut the denim loose from the wire. It was a good thing he was wearing gloves, because the barbed-wire was sharp and treacherous. “Why don’t you use electrified fence like modern ranchers?”
“Because I can’t afford it, Hank,” she said simply.
He grimaced. He freed the last strand and pulled her into a sitting position, which was unexpectedly intimate. Her blouse fell open when she leaned forward and, like any male, he filled his eyes with the sight of her firm, creamy breasts, their tips hard and mauve against the soft pink mounds. He caught his breath audibly.
Embarrassed, she grasped the edges of her shirt and pulled them together, flushing. She couldn’t meet his eyes. But she was aware of his intent stare, of the smell of leather and faint cologne that clung to his skin, of the clean smell of his long-sleeve chambray shirt. Her eyes fell to the opening at his throat, where thick black hair was visible. She’d never seen Hank without his shirt. She’d always wanted to.
His lean hand smoothed against her cheek and his thumb pressed her rounded chin up. His eyes searched her shy ones. “And that’s what I like best about you,” he said huskily. “You don’t play. Every move you make is honest.” He held her gaze. “I wouldn’t be much of a man if I’d turned my eyes away. Your breasts are beautiful, like pink marble with hard little tips that make me feel very masculine. You shouldn’t be ashamed of a natural reaction like that.”
She wasn’t quite sure what he meant. “Natural … reaction?” she faltered, wide-eyed.
He frowned. “Don’t you understand?”
She didn’t. Her life had been a remarkably sheltered one. She’d first discovered her feelings for Hank when she was just seventeen, and she’d never looked at anyone else. She’d only dated two boys. Both of them had been shy and a little nervous with her, and when one of them had kissed her, she’d found it distasteful.
She did watch movies, some of which were very explicit. But they didn’t explain what happened to people physically, they just showed it.
“No,” she said finally, grimacing. “Well, I’m hopeless, I guess. I don’t date, I haven’t got time to read racy novels …!”
He was watching her very closely. “Some lessons carry a high price. But it’s safe enough with me. Here.”
He took her own hand and, shockingly, eased the fabric away from her breast and put her fingers on the hard tip. He watched her body as he did it, which made the experience even more sensual.
“Desire causes it,” he explained quietly. “A man’s body swells where he’s most a man. A woman’s breasts swell and the tips go hard. It’s a reaction that comes from excitement, and nothing at all to be ashamed of.”
She was barely breathing. She knew her face was flushed, and her heart was beating her to death. She was sitting in the middle of an open field, letting Hank look at her breasts and explain desire to her. The whole thing had a fantasy quality that made her wide-eyed.
He knew it. He smiled. “You’re pretty,” he said gently, removing her hand and tugging the edges of the blouse back together. “Don’t make heavy weather of it. It’s natural, isn’t it, with us? It always has been. That’s why I can talk to you so easily about the most intimate things.” He frowned slightly. “I wanted my wife all the time, did I ever tell you? She taunted me and made me crazy to have her, so that I’d do anything for it. But I wasn’t rich enough to suit her. My best friend hit it big in real estate and she was all over him like a duck on a bug. I don’t think she ever looked back when she left me, but I didn’t sleep for weeks, wanting her. I still want her, from time to time.” He sighed roughly. “And now she’s coming back, she and Bob. They’re going to be in town for a few weeks while he gets rid of all his investments. He’s retiring, and he wants to sell me his racehorse. Hell of a gall, isn’t it?” he muttered coldly.
She felt his pain and didn’t dare let him see how much it disturbed her. “Thanks for untangling me,” she said breathlessly, to divert him, and started to get up.
His hand stayed her. He looked studious and calculating. “Don’t. I want to try something.”
His fingers went to the snaps of his chambray shirt and he unfastened it all down his chest, pulling the shirttail out of his jeans as he went. His chest was broad and tanned, thick with hair, powerfully muscled.
“What are you doing?” she whispered, startled.
“I told you. I want to try something.” He drew her up on her knees, and unfastened the remaining buttons on her shirt. He looked searchingly at her expression. She was too shocked to protest, and then he pulled her close, letting her feel for the first time in her life the impact of a man’s seminudity against her own.
Her sharp breath was audible. There was wonder in her eyes as she lifted them to his in fascinated curiosity.
His hands went to her rib cage and he drew her lazily, sensuously, against that rough cushion of his chest. It tickled