"My boots?"
"And then your jeans," Ten said, sliding his hand inside denim once more, searching for Diana's softness, finding it, drawing liquid fire and a ripping sound of pleasure from her. "I want you. Right here. Right now. Do you want me like that?"
With fingers that trembled, Diana reached blindly for her bootlaces. Ten made a low sound as his hand slid more deeply into her jeans. He smiled almost savagely, savoring her heat and the ragged breaking of her breath. Each movement she made as she worked over her laces increased the effect of his hidden caress. Ten made no move to help with the boots, for his other hand was too busy stroking the firm curves of her breasts to be bothered with such unrewarding objects as boots and socks.
One boot, then the other, fell to the floor of the truck, followed by the rustling whisper of socks. Slowly Diana shifted her body to the side, not wanting to end the wild, secret seduction of Ten's hand, but at the same time wanting to be free of the confinement of her jeans.
This time Ten helped, lifting Diana and peeling the rest of her clothes away, letting them fall to the floor. She shivered with heat rather than cold as she sat astride Ten once more. He looked down at his lap and the woman whose body was flushed with the passion he had aroused.
Slender hands reached for Ten's belt buckle.
"Baby, if you start there, that's where you'll finish. I want you like hell burning."
Diana looked into the hot silver of Ten's eyes and knew if she didn't take his boots off first, they wouldn't get taken off at all. His hand slid up her thigh, touched, tested deeply, knew the scalding need of her body.
"Yes," she whispered. "Like hell burning."
Watching Ten's face, Diana opened the buckle. Leather pulled free of the loops with a sliding, whispering noise. Metal buttons gave way in a muted rush of sound. She reached down only to find that he was there before her, his hard flesh parting her as he watched her take him, and he was filling her even as she watched. Her breath unraveled into a low moan as she was hurled into ecstasy. He drove into her again, burying himself in the clinging, generous heat that had haunted his dreams, and then ecstasy convulsed him and he held her hard, deep inside her, his mouth against her hot skin and her cries washing over him, echoing the sweet lightning of his own release. Locked within ecstasy, surrounded by the cruel clarity of spirit light, Ten knew this was the way he would always remember Diana, and the realization was a knife turning, teaching him more about pain than he wanted to know.
17
The knock on the door was both unexpected and the answer to Diana's secret hopes. Even as her heartbeat doubled, she told herself that she was being foolish.
It isn't Ten. He hasn't so much as telephoned in the weeks since I left the Rocking M, so what makes me think that he would waste a Friday driving all the way to Boulder to see me?
The cold, rational thoughts didn't diminish the fierce, hopeful beat of Diana's heart. She pushed away from her drawing table, took a deep, steadying breath and walked the few steps to her studio apartment's front door.
"Who is it?" she asked.
"Cash McQueen. Carla MacKenzie's brother."
With hands that weren't quite steady, Diana unlocked the door and opened it. Once she would have been unnerved at the sight of the big man who almost filled her doorway. Now the only emotion she felt was a disappointment so numbing that it was all she could do to speak. She forced her lips into the semblance of a smile.
"Hi. I thought you were in…South America, wasn't that it?"
"It was. I got back last week."
"Oh. Did you find what you were looking for?"
Cash smiled slowly, transforming his face from austere to handsome. His eyes lit with a rueful inner laughter. "No, but not many of us do."
Diana felt a flash of kinship with the big man. "No, not many of us do."
"May I come in?"
"Of course," she said, automatically backing away from the door, allowing Cash to enter. "Would you like some coffee? Or perhaps a beer? I think one of the grads left some here last night."
"Thanks, but I'll have coffee. Party last night?" he asked, looking around with veiled curiosity.
Diana's mouth curved in something less than a smile. "Depends on your definition of party. If it includes chasing elusive potshards through mismarked cartons, we had one hell of a party here last night."
"I thought all the September Canyon stuff was staying at the Rocking M."
"It is. This is from a different site. Still Anasazi, though, as you can see. They're my first love."
While Diana disappeared into the kitchen, Cash walked carefully around the apartment. It was in a state of casual disarray that resembled an academic office more than living quarters. Scholarly periodicals, books and photos covered most flat surfaces, except for a worktable. There, potshards and partially reconstructed pots reigned supreme. Photos and sketches were tacked to the walls. A bin full of sketches stored in protective transparent sleeves stood in a corner.
"Cream or sugar?" Diana called from the kitchen alcove.
"Black."
Cash walked over to the bin and began flipping slowly through the contents, studying various drawings. When Diana returned, he looked up.
"These are very good."
"Thank you." Diana set a mug of coffee on a table near Cash and cleared periodicals from a chair. "But photos are preferred by most scholars, unless they're trying to illustrate a point from their pet theory. Then they're delighted to have me draw what no one has yet had the good sense to discover in situ."
Male laughter filled the small room. Diana looked, startled, then smiled self-consciously.
"I didn't mean that quite as peevishly as it came out," she said, clearing away a second stack of periodicals and sitting down. With a casualness that cost a great deal, she asked, "How's everything on the Rocking M?"
"That's why I'm here."
Diana's head turned quickly toward Cash. "Is something wrong?"
"You took the words right out of my mouth."
"I don't understand."
"Neither does Carla."
"Mr. McQueen," began Diana.
"Cash."
"Cash," she said distractedly. "You came here for a reason. What is it?"
With a characteristic gesture of unease, Cash jammed his hands in the back pockets of his jeans, palms out. He looked at the small woman with the haunted indigo eyes and lines of strain around her full mouth. Cash didn't know what was wrong, but he was certain that something was.
Carla, what the hell have you gotten me into this time? You know better than to try and set me up with another female in a jam.
Cash looked closely at Diana. Despite her abundant femininity, she wasn't sending out the signals that an available woman did. She had smiled at the sound of his laughter, but then, a lot of people did. They hadn't learned that laughter was a perfect camouflage for his view of people in general and women in particular. One woman, however, was exempt from Cash's distrust-Carla.
"My sister would like to see you again," Cash said, "but apparently you're angry with her."
Diana started to speak. No words came out. All she could do was shake her head.
"Does that mean Carla has it all wrong and you'd be glad to come out to the Rocking M next weekend?" Cash asked smoothly.
"No." The stark refusal was out before Diana could prevent it.
Not that it mattered. She wasn't going back to the Rocking M. Not this weekend. Not the weekend after. Not ever. She couldn't bear seeing Ten again and pretending that nothing had ever happened between them in September Canyon. Nor could she pretend that his baby wasn't growing day by day within the loving warmth of her womb.