Part 22 (1/2)

She obeyed, dropping beside him. He leaned from his saddle and handed her a single calla lily. She felt touched and overwhelmed, and closed her eyes for a moment, forgetting he was there riding right beside her. Then, suddenly aware of her obvious pleasure, she felt embarra.s.sed. Carefully she tucked the flower between her leg and the saddle, then raced off for the final stretch, hoping the distance would allow her a moment to regain her composure.

He called after her, yet, when she turned once, she saw that he was letting the stretch widen between them, as if he had seen her fl.u.s.tered condition and had, once again, understood what she was feeling.

The soft black path turned dusty as she neared the barn. Her car was parked in the lot. Jennifer's truck, parked in front of her house, was the only other vehicle there.

She brought Mighty Boy to a halt before the stable entrance and wiped her brow with the sleeve of her chambray s.h.i.+rt. Carefully holding the flower, she lowered herself from the horse.

Jean-Pierre had dismounted by the far ring and was walking toward the barn. Normally, the horses would be hosed down, to both clean and cool them, but the groom had not yet arrived, so they allowed some time for the horses to cool down a little in the chilly morning air.

”I'd better be going,” Greta said after some time had pa.s.sed, taking Might Boy's bridle in her hand.

In silence, they led the horses into the barn. The animal bodies were lathered with sweat, and the fine layer of dust that covered their muscles was beginning to dry and crinkle in the shadowed coolness. She reached behind her head and unclipped her barrette, allowing her hair to fall loosely over her shoulders. It was as if everything had changed as they walked through a near-dark silence, like day into night. Her senses sharpened, like those of a nocturnal creature. She knew he was looking at her, and she felt awkwardly exposed. She glanced quickly at him. His eyes gazed at her with peaceful, deliberate regard. She maintained her lead into the barn with Mighty Boy, then Jean-Pierre stopped at his own horse's stall, and she hastened her task at hand, in an attempt to be done and out of the stall before he had a chance to come to hers. But as she worked with Mighty Boy's halter, she felt his presence at the entrance of the stall. He pulled the double door shut behind him as he entered, closing them in together in nearly complete darkness.

Her insides tightened as he slowly approached, the very act of breathing becoming more difficult the closer he came. She blinked to adjust her vision, and busied herself with releasing the girth of Mighty Boy's saddle, but she was clearly having problems; she had not thought to simply put down the flower for a moment while she worked with the snaps. And, as always, there was her hand, which forever burdened even the simplest tasks.

He came to her rescue, and she froze at the touch of his large strong hands on hers. And before she had to even consider retracting her flawed hand, he moved her aside and set about unfastening the girth and removing the saddle, leaving her to just stand there and watch, holding the flower.

Time stopped. Even Mighty Boy was still. His stare was on her again, but she willed her gaze to remain fixed on the hay-strewn floor. If she looked up into his eyes, there was no telling what would happen. Yet she made no effort to alter what was happening.

Instead she shut her eyes, and tried not to think about how much time was pa.s.sing between them without words. What were his thoughts? Were they the same as her own? What were hers? She could not focus on any of these blind musings. Unaware of her own action she had raised her head, as though all of him would become clearer if she trained her closed lids in his direction. She opened her eyes. Nothing in her mind could prepare her for what she faced. The emerald intensity of his eyes pierced through her, instantly warming her neck, her nipples, her loins.

”Come,” he said, motioning to her with one hand, the other flat against the horse's side. ”Feel this.”

She allowed him to lift her right hand and pull her closer. He made her feel the animal's hot, damp flank, flattening his own hard hand over hers. She focused on his dusty manicured nails, his long fingers, weathered knuckles, and tanned skin. This was the hand she had fantasized about, touching her as it was now, and more.

”The strength of this animal, it can all be felt through his heartbeat. So strong,” he whispered. She felt his breath on her forehead, and inhaled to try to bring it inside of her.

Mighty Boy stood steady as she experienced the bold breathing and strong heartbeat drumming beneath her hand. ”Yes,” she managed, barely, willing her hand to stop trembling beneath his.

He slowly lifted her hand from the horse and turned her so that they were facing each other. The flower fell from her free hand.

He removed the glove from the hand he was holding, then he reached for her other hand.

”No,” she said, a little panicked. ”Not that one.”

He nodded to let her know that he understood, then guided the ungloved hand beneath his s.h.i.+rt. He pressed her palm to his chest, over his heart. ”It is no different,” he said. Then she had the other, gloved hand in his s.h.i.+rt. She felt his insistent heartbeat, so powerful in its pounding, the pulse of his life beneath her hands. She raked her fingers over his muscles. The wild scent of horses mingled sharply with his spiciness. She closed her eyes and took a deep, heady breath, and experienced a wave of pleasant dizziness.

He gripped her wrists and pressed her against Mighty Boy, touched his lips to her ear. ”Perhaps this attraction I feel for you is the first to come between me and my love for horses,” he said with a little laugh.

She s.h.i.+fted her head back. A bead of sweat jiggled on his chin, beside a tiny flake of hay. She dabbed the droplet with the back of her bare hand, touched the hay flake away and pulled it past his lips, yet did not let herself touch them. He took her hand from his cheek, then curled her fingers into his own. He inhaled the fragrance on her wrist, kissed it.

She began trembling as he lowered his arm around her waist and pressed her harder into Mighty Boy, layering her between the heat of two powerful bodies. She pulled her fingers free of his grip and plunged her hands into his long hair and down his neck, across the hard muscles of his shoulders.

Then, just as their lips drew near, Greta reeled her head away with a shake, as if snapping awake from frightening dream - he had taken her gloved hand in his own.

”No,” she said, struggling.

He tightened his hold on her. ”What are you hiding, Greta? What is it you are so afraid to show me?” Then suddenly, Matthew's image appeared in her mind's eye.

An agonized moan escaped her, and she let out a small, frustrated cry. She had to leave, at once. ”I can't,” she said, bringing her lips closer to his. ”Do you hear me, I can't.”

Or could she? Could she just once, to have him completely in her memory forever? Yes, just this one time. Quickly, she thought, before Matthew returns and makes it impossible for her to go any further.