She squirmed. He held her fast. “Zach, we’ve been married awhile,” Bett said uncomfortably. “I don’t want you to get bored. A lot of times I really don’t see how anyone without a master’s degree in acrobatics can do any of that stuff. I mean, who needs a perpetual charley horse?” Her eyes met his, suddenly serious. “But that’s not to say… Zach, I don’t want you ever, ever to think that if you want to try something…” Her breath caught in her throat again. “I just want to be sure you know that. That I will at least try. Anything you want…”
He’d stopped smiling. His blue eyes had turned dark, liquid, intense. “That goes two ways, little one. We will always try anything you want. But as for any fear of my being bored with you…”
Zach leaned over her, his lips first rubbing hers lightly, then homing in as he drew her close. She made a tiny sound at the luxurious pressure of his mouth, at the sweep of his hands up and down her bare flesh. Her response was instant, all-giving. That was Bett. They’d both freely experimented from time to time; intimacy was a complex thing. Play was part of that, but Bett’s sweetness and freedom in loving were what made their nights special. Bored? It wasn’t conceivable. He sought to show her that. His tongue savored the honeyed darkness of her mouth, the hollow of her cheek, the smooth, pearly feel of her teeth.
His palm curled around her breast, his thumb brushing back and forth across her nipple. So taut, so tender, that sensitive flesh. He knew Bett. He knew exactly what ignited her primitive side. The small, perfect breast that barely filled his palm changed with a certain touch, swelled and hardened; he could feel the ache inside her begin to build. Her breasts were unbelievably sensitive. So were her inner thighs, her bottom. A caress around her navel could annoy her, throw her off a building rhythm. Bett was easily distracted; even just an odd sound in the night, and she had to be wooed back into the mood. She could be quite distressed with herself when that happened.
He had no intention of letting anything distract or distress her tonight.
She’d been upset by the call from her mother, he knew that. More than Bett would ever know, Zach resented the thought of a third person coming to live with them. If he’d invited the problem, it was for Bett’s sake; he knew they had the strength in their marriage to live through this. Still, he was used to having Bett all to himself. He wanted, needed and counted on having Bett to himself. Like now. Bett was here. A black night surrounded them; Bett was damned well on fire. So was he. When he leaned over her, she wrapped her legs around his waist, forcing that first thrust so deeply inside her that he swore he touched her soul. Or his.
Chapter 3
Bett had been trying to convince herself for the past hour that the rain was only a drizzle. It wasn’t easy. Water was dripping from her matted lashes and dribbling down her neck, her hair was slicked to her scalp, and her T-shirt was wet even under the yellow slicker. It was eleven o’clock on the first morning of September, and nature couldn’t have chosen a nastier time to get touchy.
They had an order for field-run peaches that wouldn’t wait. Zach was at the market with their plums; rain meant nighttime spray duty, and their picking crew would have been delighted to walk out right now-except that no respectable Spanish-speaking gentleman would consider leaving the orchard as long as a woman was still willing to work her heart out in the pouring rain.
Bett brushed a wet hand through her sopping hair and crouched down again on the flatbed truck. Three field crates to go, and the order would be completed. Lupe’s eyes were shooting daggers at her. An hour before, Zach had told her to go home and dry off, that Lupe would handle the picking crew. But Bett hadn’t left, and Lupe clearly didn’t know quite what to do. Zach’s orders were usually more than reasonable; Zach’s wife wasn’t.
Bett acknowledged that she had a tiny stubborn streak, but quality control was the issue. “Field run” meant their buyer was prepared to take their fruit direct from the orchard. They received less money for their peaches that way, but they also didn’t have to go through the expense of sorting and packing and packaging. Which was fine, only Bett didn’t like anything leaving the farm with the Monroe label on it that was less than perfect if she could help it. These peaches were close, all forty-seven crates of them behind her.
The last three crates were finally heaved up to the truck bed, and Bett glanced up from her sorting task. “We done,” Lupe told her, and stabbed a forefinger in her direction. “You go tell Senor Monroe you been home awhile.”
“Yes, Lupe.” She silently and fervently thanked God for male chauvinists. The crew would surely have abandoned their task if there hadn’t been the issue of the men outlasting a lone woman in the rain. She felt a wave of affection for the workers. They looked so darned rough…but she’d been offered four additional raincoats in the past hour, which rather said it all. As their trucks rumbled off down the back road in quick succession, Bett stood up to walk over to the last three crates of peaches. On the far hill, she spotted a sudden flash of pink.
The flash quickly resolved itself into a shocking-pink Lincoln, four years old, with a U-Haul behind it that sagged dangerously close to the ground. The farm road was constructed for slow-moving tractors; the Lincoln seemed to be approaching at the speed of sound. Its brakes were slammed on just inches from the back of her truck, about the same time Bett vaulted down from the truck bed, her tennis shoes squishing on the slippery wet earth.
A pink-and-mauve polka-dotted umbrella emerged from the car first, then a blouse in a vivid print of pink, orange and chartreuse. Pink culottes were next, and, finally, a brand-new pair of pink tennis shoes-Elizabeth’s concession to farm life. Bett took one look at her mother and swallowed hard, before extending outstretched arms.
“Mom! We weren’t expecting you for another two days.”
“Oh, darling, I just couldn’t wait. I started to think about how hard you two kids work and how much I could help you. Brittany.” Elizabeth’s eyes glowed with tears. “I just felt better than I have in months, knowing you needed me. Without your father, I’ve just…” The glow threatened to become an instant deluge.
Swiftly and instinctively, Bett ducked under the umbrella and wrapped her arms around her mother. The scent of lavender surrounded her, as familiar as the oatmeal cookies she’d been fed as a child. Good food, good sleep, good love, Elizabeth used to say. A billion times? Bett found herself laughing as the rain pelted down on both of them.
Elizabeth pulled back first, surveying her daughter up and down. “Brittany, you are a total mess, and soaking wet.”
“And before you are, we’d better get you to the house. Everything will be fine, Mom, I promise you.”
“You’re so busy, you and Zach. I’m so terribly afraid I’m going to be in your way…”
“You’re not going to be in our way. We both want you here, very much. Now, just follow the truck in.”
Bett kept an eye on her mother in the rearview mirror as they drove toward the farmyard. At fifty-four, Elizabeth still had a relatively unlined face, brown hair worn in a short mass of curls and a trim figure a little on the buxom side. Her smooth skin and doelike brown eyes reflected the life she had lived, that of a sheltered homemaker who wanted nothing more from life than to be a sheltered homemaker.
The circles under Elizabeth’s eyes made Bett ache for her mother. Elizabeth hadn’t known how to even begin coping when Chet died. After more than a year, she still didn’t. If the constant tears had finally eased a little, Elizabeth was still at sea over balancing checkbooks and caring for the yard, taxes, what to do with her time. The smallest decisions still overwhelmed her, not because she lacked ability or intelligence, but simply because she really didn’t want to change her lifestyle.