Smoothing the hair out of her eyes, she tried to smile. "Well, that was fan."
"Thanks for trusting me," he said softly.
That lump came back to her throat. She nodded, feeling the tears return to her eyes. The words "thank you" stuck in her throat. If she said them, the waterworks would start again.
Embarrassed suddenly, she groped for something to lighten the mood. To do something with her hands, she brushed the hair out of his eyes. That was it! Eyeing his hair, she scrambled to her knees. "Could I cut your hair?"
He didn't know what he'd expected her to say, but it sure as hell wasn't "Can I cut your hair?" He smiled. Leave it to Devon to spill her guts and then turn to cleaning. Please?"
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He shrugged. At that moment he couldn't have denied her a thing.
She leapt off the bed. Beaming, she rushed over to her armoire and returned with a big pair of silver scissors.
"Here," she said, patting the back of the stump chair, "sit down."
He did as he was told. She swept a dishtowel around his neck and clamped the two ends together with a clothespin.
"Collar length all right?"
He eyed the scissors uneasily. "No shorter."
The snip, snip, snip of the scissors filled the quiet tent, accompanied now and then by the sputtering flame of the lantern. Stone Man sat perfectly erect, his only movement the sporadic tapping of his foot on the hard wooden floor.
She edged sideways. Her left leg snuck up between his, burrowing past his knee and settling comfortably along his thigh. The contact jolted him upright.
"Sit still," she ordered.
He froze, his gaze glued to the softly swirling mass of skirting between his legs. He felt the heat of her leg through the wool of his pants. A jet of pure electricity shot up his thigh, landing hot and hard in his groin. He shifted his weight.
"Stone Man, sit still."
&
nbsp; Was it his imagination, or was her voice huskier? Was she feeling it, too, this burst of sensation? He tilted his head back. Immediately he wished he hadn't. Her breasts were a hand's width from his face. He sucked in his breath hard. He held it as long as he could then let it shoot past his lips. It fluttered through the lacy edge of her crisp white apron.
The soft, slim fingers of her left hand slid under his chin,| exerting pressure for him to look up. He fought it, forcing himself to look straight ahead-right past her breasts to the sagging canvas wall beyond.
"Lookup."
Reluctantly he did and found himself staring right into her face. For the space of a breath he felt like he were drowning J in her eyes. It took a supreme effort to wrench his gaze away. |
Her nearness was giving him all sorts of ideas, ideas he shouldn't be having around a woman like her.
He broke out in a cold sweat. What the hell was he thinking? She wasn't a whore. . . . She was a lady. What in God's name did a man do when he wanted a lady?
The answer came swiftly. Run.
He jumped to his feet, wincing as his left boot heel came down on the scalloped edge of her underskirt. The sickening sound of rending cotton hissed through the tent.
Caught off balance, Devon stumbled into his chest. The scissors clanged to the floor amidst a shower of night-black hair. She flung her arms around his neck, clinging to him for support.
He felt her nipples harden, felt them push against the worn flannel of his workshirt like twin pebbles. Struggling for control, he stared at the ceiling. Concentrating on each breath, he willed his traitorous body to relax.
He felt the quick, almost birdlike movement of her head. She'd lifted her face to his.