Montana Dreaming. Karen Rose Smith
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through his blood. The way she looked at him, her eyes wide, hanging on his every word, made him puff up like a toad that thought he was king of the pond.
“Was Amos related to Jason and Caleb Douglas?” she asked.
“Yeah. Amos was the original Douglas settler in Thunder Canyon.”
“And what’s the story about the poker game? Who did Amos win it from?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a prospector with a drinking and gambling problem. It’s hard to say. When I get some time, I’m going to head over to the museum and see if they’ve got more information.”
She sobered. “I’m sorry, Mark.”
“About what?”
“Keeping you from your research.”
“Don’t worry about it. I can place a few calls, if necessary, and can research the Internet. Maybe by the time I get back to my interviews, Caleb will have found the deed.” His explanation seemed to appease her, and he was glad, although not entirely sure why.
She placed a finger to her lips and clamped down on a nail, puzzled by something. “If the Douglas family owned the gold mine property, what do you think happened to the deed?”
Mark shrugged. “Who knows? It’s been over a hundred years. Maybe Amos or one of his descendents misplaced it. They probably thought the land wasn’t worth anything.”
“Not even in sentimental value?”
He reached up, stroked a silky strand of her raven-black hair and gave it a gentle tug. “Most people see land for what it is. Real estate. Money in the pocket.”
“I’m not most people.”
“So I’m learning.” For a moment, something passed between them. Something tender and intimate. Something that ought to scare the hell out of him. Something that did. He dropped his hand and studied his empty plate.
“Well,” she began, “from what I’ve gathered from mealtime chitchat at The Hitching Post, Caleb seems more focused on finding that deed than in the groundbreaking of the ski resort he’s developing.”
“He’s probably no different than the others. Each time another gold nugget is found, folks want to believe there’s an untapped vein out there. The idea of sudden riches stirs the blood of some people.”
“But not yours?”
“No.”
“What stirs your blood?”
He looked at her, caught the gold flecks in her eyes that glimmered in the lamplight when she teased him, spotted the cute nose that turned up slightly. Noticed the fullness of her bottom lip, the softness that begged to be kissed.
His blood was moving along at a pretty good clip now, but he’d be damned if he’d let her know that.
Damn. He definitely needed to get laid. How long had it been? Surely not long enough for his libido to contemplate putting the moves on an expectant mother, for cripes sake.
“You really are a stick in the mud.” She patted his thigh in a gentle, we’re-good-friends way. But it didn’t seem to matter to the rush of his bloodstream. “You have no imagination, Mark. Can’t you tap into your heart?”
His heart had fizzled out a long time ago. After his sister had died. And whatever had been left shriveled up when his wife filed for divorce and moved out of their apartment while he was away on an assignment.
Juliet tugged on the sleeve of his shirt again, which seemed to be her habit. Her way of touching him without actually doing so.
“Can’t you let go once in a while?” she asked.
Let what go?
His past? His guilt? His pessimism?
“What do you mean? I know how to have fun.” At least, he used to. It had been a while—about as long as it had been since he’d had a wild passionate, no-strings-attached night.
“Close your eyes,” she said.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
For some dumb reason, he did. “Okay, now what?”
“Think about The Hitching Post. About a building that’s been around for ages. Can’t you almost hear the plunking sound of a piano? The voices of people who once lived and played here?”
He squinted, opening one eye and then the other. “I’m not sure we ought to be listening to those voices. This floor was a brothel, remember?” He chuckled. “Did you still want me to imagine the tales these walls could tell?”
Her face flushed, although the Pollyanna glimmer remained in those mahogany eyes. And she shrugged. “It might be interesting.”
“Interesting?”
“I thought most women in the olden days didn’t particularly like sex.”
“I’m sure plenty of them did.” He grinned. “What makes you think they didn’t?”
“Well, once when I was in the fourth grade, I overheard my abuelita and an older neighbor lady talking about sex.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“My grandmother said she wouldn’t walk across the room for it.”
“That’s too bad. It sounds as though your grandfather didn’t know how to pleasure her.”
Juliet didn’t respond. But then, what was there to say?
Mark wondered whether Kramer had been good to her, whether he’d given her the kind of first-time experience she should have had. “Tell me, Juliet. Would you walk across the room for it?”
“Probably. If there wasn’t anything good on television.” Her eyes glimmered, and he couldn’t tell if she was serious or pulling his leg.
“Then Kramer wasn’t any better at pleasing a lady than your grandfather was,” Mark said, taking a guess.
Her eyes widened, as if he’d hit the G-spot and set off her first orgasm.
Sexual awareness filled the room, settling over him. Over her, too, he suspected.
Her lips parted in an enticing way, almost as if inviting him to close in on her, to give her the kind of kiss that made blood pound, race, demand.
What was happening to him?
He ought to pull away. Let it go. Laugh it off, like a guy with any sense would.
But Mark had never been very heroic.
And when Juliet ran the tip of her tongue along her lips, he was lost.
Chapter Five
The kiss started innocently, sweetly. A tender promise of sugar and spice.
But before Mark could decide whether to pull back or press on, Juliet placed an angel-soft hand on his cheek and leaned forward—into the kiss.
Her lips, parted, and he savored the taste of her, a unique, tantalizing flavor that went beyond a hint of lemon and meringue. He cupped her jaw with one hand, fingers delving toward the back of her neck, the strands of her hair brushing his knuckles in a silky cascade.
As the kiss intensified, ever so slowly, his tongue explored the wet velvety softness of her mouth, tentatively seeking and savoring until he craved more of whatever captivated his senses.
Desire smoldered under the surface, warming his blood in a steady rush, urging him to give it free rein, to let it build and surge.
But something ensnared him, held him in a mesmerizing spell that slowed their motions, while intensifying sensual awareness.
Whatever it was seemed to have caught her,