Luke's Promise. Eileen Wilks
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back in that bed right now. It was an impulse, not an attack. You looked pretty, so I kissed you.”
She glared at him. “You can’t go around kissing everyone you think looks pretty! No, wait—I guess you can. You do. But you can’t go around kissing me whenever the urge strikes.”
It occurred to him belatedly that her reaction had been perfect. If he forgot himself again when he was making her feel wanted, she’d punch him. Even through the remarkable haze of lust she inspired, that would get his attention.
He grinned, pleased with her. “I’m weak, but I can learn. If you clobber me like that every time I give in to the urge, maybe it will go away.” He turned. “Go ahead and sleep in, if you like—it’ll be your last chance for a while. After tomorrow, you’ll be up early, running laps.”
“I hate laps.”
She sounded sulky. It made her voice huskier than ever. His hand tightened on the doorknob as another wave of heat hit. “Tough,” he said, and shut the door firmly behind him.
Tomorrow, he thought, heading back to the living room, he’d start working with Fine Dandy and Maggie. He was looking forward to it. Dressage first, he thought, turning off the light. Dressage was the foundation for all the rest, and shouldn’t strain that broken wrist too badly.
Instead of going straight to his room, he paused to appreciate the way the huge, undraped window at the back of the house let the night in. Stars spilled over each other overhead, a vast nightly show he never grew tired of.
He ached. Still. In fact, he was log-hard and ready for something that wasn’t going to happen…not for several months, most likely. He thought about a cold shower and shook his head ruefully. How long would this marriage last? Four months? Six? Taking a cold shower once or twice a day for the next six months did not appeal.
It looked as though he was going to become more closely acquainted with himself in the next few months than he had been since Serena Sayers took him around the world in the back seat of her daddy’s Chevy. Lord, that had been a long time ago. A lot of years had passed. A lot of women, too. Some would say too many—Maggie would, and did. But Luke liked women. He liked the way they looked and moved and thought, their moods and quirks, the mystery of them. They were tough and fragile all at once, and never wholly predictable. He wouldn’t apologize for having enjoyed the women he’d known. And there was only one he truly regretted.
Thirst hit, quick and hot. He looked at his empty hands, and could almost see one of them curled around a glass half-filled with amber liquid. All too easy to picture that, to imagine the sweet burn of Scotch sliding down his throat. His mouth tightened.
It was the thought of Pam that did it, he supposed. Only rarely did he drink, and even more rarely did he crave a drink. Odd that he had such a distrust of the stuff, when it had been Michael’s mother, not his, who’d fought a losing battle with the bottle. But he didn’t handle alcohol well, never had. Drink made a fool of him, and he seldom indulged in more than a casual beer or glass of wine…except when the memories rose and choked him. It didn’t happen often these days. No more than once a year.
It had been on one of those nights, the ones when he felt too sorry for himself, with too much already lost, for it to matter if he lost some small piece of himself in the bottle, that he’d run into Maggie last year. And proved he was still more of a fool drunk than sober.
Luke sighed. Well, he’d do what he could to make amends. It was a relief, a big one, to know that Maggie would stop him if he lost sight of his little-used nobility and tried to take her further than he should.
Tomorrow, he thought, turning away from the window, he’d see about getting Fine Dandy’s ownership transferred to Maggie. Hitchcock was an idiot to have advised Malcolm Stewart to sell the horse. Maggie’s big gelding had the heart, the smarts and the strength for eventing. In the right hands, Dandy could be a champion.
Just like his owner. Luke smiled as he entered his bedroom.
Whether she knew it or not, Maggie’s training had already started.
Maggie sat in the middle of the big bed, the covers pulled up to her waist, her journal propped against her lifted knees. She was wearing her usual winter sleepwear—raggedy sweats. The pants had once been red; the top was violently orange. She was chewing on the end of her pen after recording the events of this extraordinary day.
All in all, she finished, I think my plan has an excellent chance of success. If one simple kiss can make me feel…
She lifted her head, staring into space. The feeling was easily summoned, though memory was a pale creature compared to the original experience. But she couldn’t find words for it. Not a tingle, no, nor an electric jolt…warmth? Yes, but the sun was warm, and this hadn’t felt all light and pleasant, like sunshine.
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