To Love A Stallion. Deborah Fletcher Mello
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and flowers was detailed in magnificent color against her warm complexion, seeming to stop somewhere past the curve of her buttocks. He marveled at the tattoo’s intricacy, having never seen such a display of artwork on a woman before. Not one other blemish marred her skin, the tone so smooth and even that one could only imagine how soft and sweet she might be in a man’s arms. He resisted an urge to draw his finger against her bare flesh.
He wasn’t used to the sensations sweeping through him, his blood surging as it simmered through his veins. Since their brief encounter in the elevator and their abrupt introduction in his boardroom, John felt as if his whole world had changed and John wasn’t one to like a whole lot of change. But everything felt different. He felt different, as if some piece of that woman was crawling just beneath the surface of his skin, pleasant but irritating. With her suddenly in his presence, standing so close that the fragrant scent of her perfume was teasing his nostrils, it was almost too much for him to take. He suddenly pondered whether or not a shot or two of straight scotch might calm his frazzled nerves. John shook his head, trying to clear the rush of confusion that threatened to consume him as he still stood staring like he’d lost his mind.
Marah could feel his eyes burning over her flesh and she smiled slyly. Working her assets came naturally and she paused just long enough for him to get a good look before she spun slowly in his direction to face him. She shifted her weight from one hip to the other, accentuating the curve of her buttocks and the narrow line of her thin waist. “Cat got your tongue, Mr. Stallion?”
John blinked, forcing his focus back to her exquisite caramel-colored eyes, the forest-thick lashes batting in his direction. “I’m sorry. You were saying…?”
“I was admiring your home,” Marah said, a soft smile brightening her face. “Have you lived here long?”
“We built the house back in 2002, right after the company started doing well.
Marah’s smile widened. “And you all live here?” she asked, her gaze skating from one to the other.
Mark shook his head, the appendage waving from side to side. “Not anymore. Luke and I are the only two still here at home. John and Matthew both have their own places.”
“Interesting,” Marah said, nodding slowly.
John shrugged. “Not really. We entertain clients here and occasionally a business associate or two might stay here if they need to be in town for an extended period of time.”
“We like to make our guests feel at home,” Juanita chimed, her gaze resting on Edward’s.
Marah couldn’t help but note the look that passed between them. Her discomfort did not go unnoticed as John looked from her to the older couple and back again.
“Miss Hilton has been our surrogate mother. She lives here as well and keeps us in line,” he said.
“Now that’s right,” the woman chimed, a warm chuckle passing over her lips.
“Do you have any other family here?” Marah asked curiously. “Your parents?”
The man shook his head. “No. It’s just us four,” he said, an air of tension rising from his center. Marah sensed that she had struck a sensitive nerve and immediately regretted having asked the question.
Luke changed the subject. “Why don’t we move this conversation to the dinner table. I’m starved.”
“I second that,” Mark echoed.
Juanita Hilton moved ahead of them. “I’ll let the kitchen know you’re ready to be served,” she said, shifting into assistant mode.
John took the seat at the head of the table, guiding her to the seat at his side. Her father was seated at the other end, Juanita taking the seat on his right side as the Stallion brothers occupied the remaining chairs. The table was set immaculately, the Stallions displaying their finest china and crystal. Eden, with her pretentious airs, would have been duly impressed, Marah thought to herself.
The conversation was casual as they all chatted easily over a meal of prime rib, glazed carrots and garlic mashed potatoes. Marah knew that her father was truly comfortable when he starting telling a few of the many cowboy jokes he’d become famous for.
“Okay,” Edward was saying, everyone’s eyes on him. “This old cowhand comes riding into town on one of them hot, dry, dusty days. Now the local sheriff is standing at the front of the saloon watching as the cowboy climbs on down off his horse and ties the mustang to a rail a few feet from the entrance.
“The sheriff, he says, ‘Howdy, stranger.’ and the old cowboy gives him a ‘Howdy, sheriff’ right back. The cowboy then goes to the back of his horse, lifts its tail and places a big kiss on that horse’s ass end. He drops the tail, steps up on the sidewalk and heads through the swinging doors into the saloon.
“Now, the sheriff can’t believe what he’s just seen and he says, ‘Hold on, mister. Did I just see what I think I saw?’ And the man says, ‘Reckon you did, sheriff. I got me some powerful chapped lips.’ The sheriff is still floored by what the man did so he asks him, ‘Does kissing that horse’s ass cure them lips of yours?’ And the man says, ‘Nope, but it does keep me from lickin’ ’em.”
The men bust out laughing. Marah could only shake her head having heard that joke and most of her father’s others more times than she cared to count. As the evening wore on, Marah was beginning to think the night was about everything except the acquisition of her family’s homestead. Throughout the evening she could feel John stealing glances in her direction, his timid behavior reminiscent of an adolescent in the cusp of a first crush. Marah figured she would be well served to take full advantage of the situation.
She leaned closer in his direction, her eyes widening with intrigue as she gave him a wry smile.
“Mr. Stallion?’
“Please, call me John. Too many Mr. Stallions for us to know which one you’re looking for,” he said, tossing a quick wink toward his brothers.
“John, about the ranch…” she started.
Her father interrupted, clearing his throat to draw their attention in his direction and away from whatever it was Marah was about to say. “John, my boy. I didn’t get a chance to tell Marah about your hobby. She’s quite the art collector. I was thinking that she might like to see your studio one day.”
Marah turned back to face the man, her annoyance dispelled by her curiosity. “You’re an artist?”
John shrugged his shoulders, a shy smile filling his face. “I dabble on occasion.”
“He does more than dabble,” Juanita interjected. “He’s quite talented.”
“Quite,” Mark teased, elbowing Luke. The two men chuckled and John rolled his eyes. Marah smiled.
“I have two sisters,” she said with a warm laugh. “I understand perfectly.
“Where do you fall in the lineup?” John asked, leaning his chin into his hands, his elbows propped against the tabletop.
Marah met his intense gaze. “I’m the youngest. My sister Eden is six years older than Marla and me, and Marla is ten minutes older than I am.”
The man nodded. “I’m the oldest. Matthew’s next and there’s a two-year age difference between us. Then comes Mark who is one year younger than Matthew, and Luke here was the family accident.”
Luke snarled. “I was too planned!”
“Like a heart attack,” Mark joked. “I was six when Mom got pregnant with him. He wasn’t planned.”
The table chuckled as Luke flicked a carrot at his brother’s head.
As if reading her mind, John answered the question that had been on her mind. His tone was edged in emotion that seemed to pierce straight through Marah’s heart.
“Our parents died in an automobile accident