Desperado Page 9

  Helen dropped a voluminous red-and-black carpetbag on the couch and quickly enfolded P.D. in a hug. “Land sakes, it’s good to see you!”

  “How have all the SASS shoots gone this spring?”

  “Good. Really, really good. Winter Range nearly wiped out my stock, so I’ll have to get sewing,” Helen said, referring to one of the Single Action Shooting Society competitions held each year in Arizona. “Now, let’s get the two of you measured. I was hoping I could stay a little and chat, but I promised Sydney I’d be home in an hour. We’ve got grandchildren coming to spend the night.”

  She whirled to face a bemused Elam, eyeing him up and down with a keen eye. “Well, God Bless America,” she muttered under her breath.

  P.D. felt her cheeks flame, even though she knew there was no way Elam could interpret the true sentiment behind the remark.

  Without another word, Helen turned to her carpetbag, and much like Mary Poppins, she opened it wide to remove a tape measure, clipboard and pen, several pairs of twill pants, a half-dozen linen shirts, a pin cushion, and a pair of scissors. Moving toward Elam, she kept up a running monologue on the well-being of her nine grandchildren while she quickly took Elam’s measurements and relayed them to P.D., who wrote them down on a form mounted to the clipboard.

  P.D. tried to concentrate on the task. Really, she did. But her eyes kept straying to Elam’s lithe frame as Helen’s hands roamed freely over the planes and angles. What P.D. wouldn’t give for an excuse to do the same.

  Finally, just when P.D. feared she would spontaneously combust, Helen handed the trousers and shirts to Elam, then added suspenders, bright yellow sleeve garters, and a vest, and told him to try them on.

  “I think they’ll do fine. But I’ll need to mark the hems.”

  To P.D.’s estimation, Elam was looking a little shell-shocked. His gaze ping-ponged from P.D. to Helen as if they expected him to strip there and then. “Is there a …”

  “There’s a restroom down the hall to the left,” P.D. said, throwing him a lifeline.

  When he disappeared, Helen cast P.D. a knowing look. “I remembered him being a dish, but … Holy moley! Is that what the Navy does to a man?”

  “Shh!” P.D. said quickly, rushing to close the door. “He’ll hear you!”

  Helen laughed. “I’m sure he’s used to female admiration by now.” She returned to her carpetbag. “Strip.”

  “What? I can’t—”

  “He’s not going to come barging in without knocking. And I’ve only got a few more minutes to get this done before Syd lights a distress flare. He’s Super-Grandpa if he’s only got one or two kids, but if I don’t hurry, the nine of them will have him duct taped to a chair before he can say ‘Boo!’ And while Elam’s clothing is merely a matter of finding something premade that fits, I’ve got your ball gown to make, and for that, I need your measurements in the corset. So strip.”

  Sighing, P.D. reluctantly shucked off her boots and jeans. Then, after donning the camisole Helen handed her, she stripped off her bra from underneath and threw it onto the pile forming on the swooning couch. Helen withdrew a frothy confection made of red and black jacquard silk and lace, wrapped it around P.D.’s body, and fastened the hook-and-tab metal busk down the center front. Then, she moved to the back and began yanking on the laces.

  Grunting, P.D. gripped the edge of the filing cabinet to keep from being yanked onto her backside. Listening for the telltale sound of boots in the hall, she impatiently endured the process until it felt as if she’d been encased in an iron band and couldn’t take a deep breath. She opened her mouth to complain that there was no way on God’s green earth that she was going to wear anything that tight, but then she caught a look of herself in the mirror.

  “Pretty good, huh?” Helen said with far too much satisfaction.

  P.D. wasn’t going to argue with her. The corset had cinched her torso into a wasp-waist hourglass. And her boobs …

  There was no disguising how “well endowed” she was in this contraption.

  “Does it have to be this tight?” she panted, even though her own vanity begged her to leave it as it was.

  “Only for the banquet. I’ve got a regular coutil working corset for you to wear in the competition.”

  “Yippee,” P.D. offered with lightly veiled sarcasm.

  “Beauty is pain, sweetie,” Helen offered. Moving to her carpetbag again, she withdrew several black ruffled petticoats and dropped them over P.D.’s head.

  As she marked the placement for the buttons, P.D. asked, “How on earth do you carry all that crap in one bag?”

  But before Helen could answer, there was a knock. P.D. opened her mouth to tell Elam that she and Helen would be with him in a minute, but before she could utter a sound, Helen reached out and threw open the door.

  P.D. watched in horror as the barrier swung wide. But then, she caught sight of the man framed in the threshold. With his dark hair and beard, linen shirt and twill pants, ruffled arm garters, and suspenders, he could have been liberated from one of her beloved period novels.

  He held out the vest in Helen’s general direction, saying, “This is too big. I think I’d rather wear the leather one I use for shooting.”

  But even though the words were directed at Helen, Elam’s gaze had latched on to P.D., who stood dressed in nothing but a pair of petticoats, camisole, and a nineteenth-century overbust corset.

  Her cheeks felt as if they’d caught on fire as he looked down, down, down, taking in every inch of exposed flesh, every silk-covered curve, the fullness of the ruffled underskirts. The scorching heat of his scrutiny could have rivaled the touch of his fingers for intimacy. When his gaze moved back up again to linger on her breasts, she found it even harder to breathe. Unwittingly, in that quick sweep of his eyes, he’d ignited a smoldering fire deep in her belly. And judging by his own expression, Elam wasn’t thinking of his wife or his grief or his lonely cabin on the hill.

  He saw only her.

  Only her.

  And he wanted to touch her. With his hands, with his mouth.

  If Helen hadn’t been there, P.D. knew without a doubt that he would have closed the distance and thrown her on the swooning couch—and P.D. would have convinced herself that his passion was enough, even if it were only temporary. But he managed to restrain himself beneath the eyes of their unwitting chaperone.

  “You look … beautiful,” he said, his voice gruff.

  For a moment, the words shimmered in the air in front of them, as brittle and fragile as glass. And in that instant, P.D. knew that she was in deep trouble. Elam Taggart was unlike any man she’d ever known—dark and brooding and powerful. He should have come with a flashing sign that read DANGER to women like her. Hell, she’d had less than a half-dozen relationships, none of them long-term. Inevitably, the men she dated soon settled into two categories. Either they began to look upon her as a mother confessor to their woes …

  Or they would decide she was too “rough around the edges” for anything even close to a commitment and they would break her heart.

  Without question, Elam fell into the latter category. As much as she might want to dive headfirst into a passionate romp with this man, he was still negotiating his way out of the grieving process. And as any fool knew, if she allowed the attraction between them to blossom, she would become his “rebound” relationship. He would gain his emotional footing and then move on to someone who was perky and blond and the life of the party. Beautiful people attracted beautiful people—and Elam was drop-dead gorgeous, so he would need a stunner for his arm candy. That was the way the world worked. Besides, there was also the fact that he was Bodey’s brother, and you didn’t date your best friend’s brother.

  But even as she mentally listed all the reasons why getting involved with Elam Taggart was a really, really bad idea …

  She couldn’t deny that she wanted Elam to keep looking at her the way he was now.

  “One more thing,” Helen said, turning back to her bag
. Reaching deep inside, she withdrew a brocade vest and a woolen frock coat.

  “How do you get so much crap in that thing?” Elam asked with a suspicious frown, unknowingly echoing P.D.’s same question.

  “Magic,” Helen supplied with an infectious laugh. She motioned for Elam to come closer. “Everything else fit?”

  He nodded.

  She peered at his feet. “Those the boots you plan on wearing?”

  He rocked back to squint at his shoes. “What’s wrong with them?”

  “Not a thing. You’ll need something worn and dusty and covered in cow shit to give you an added authenticity. I’m hoping you have something better for the ball.”

  “How much better?”

  “Maybe it’s time you got yourself some new boots,” she said cheekily as she scooped the shirts and pants out of his arms. Then she tossed an order in P.D.’s direction. “Shoot, I forgot. Grab that tape measure and take his inside and outside leg measurement for me, will you please?”

  P.D.’s cheeks flamed so hot she was amazed her hair didn’t catch on fire. “Me?” she squeaked.

  “Yes, you. I don’t have a mouse in my pocket.”

  P.D. waited until Elam was distracted with the vest Helen handed him, then threw her friend a murderous look.

  Helen’s broad grin confirmed that Helen hadn’t forgotten to take the measurements at all. She’d decided that subtle matchmaking wouldn’t be nearly as much fun as throwing P.D. at Elam’s feet. Literally.

  Kneeling on the floor, P.D. tried to ignore her suggestive position. She stretched the tape measure from his waist to a point an inch off the ground, then twisted to write the number on the clipboard. Geez, the man had great legs. Great thighs, great calves, great butt.

  Great package.

  Stop it!

  “Can you, uh …” She motioned for him to part his legs more.

  He widened his stance to “parade rest.” Damned if he didn’t look down at her through lashes that were darker and thicker than any man’s had a right to be.

  Suddenly, P.D. realized that from his vantage point, he had a perfect view of her breasts straining against the cups of her corset and the deep valley of her cleavage. And he didn’t seem inclined to look away. Even more telling, a pronounced bulge pressed against his fly.

  Air became an even more precious commodity as she fought to get enough oxygen past the tightness of her corset. But there was no avoiding the necessary intimacy as she pressed the end of the tape measure against his crotch and measured to the proper hem length.

  Did he notice the way her fingers lingered of their own volition? Could he guess that she wanted to wrap her arms around his thighs and press herself to his warmth?

  The thought had her leaping to her feet. But when she tripped on the flounces of her petticoat, Elam quickly snagged her elbow, pulling her against the solid strength of his body.

  “My work here is done,” Helen proclaimed, her tongue-in-cheek comment rife with amusement. “I’ve got to get back to the house or Sydney will have my hide.”

  P.D. managed to yank her gaze away from the hard planes of Elam’s chest. “But what about the frock coat?”

  Helen’s eyes twinkled. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. If not, let me know. I’ll pick up your costume pieces tomorrow morning.”

  She scooped up her belongings and dumped them higgledy-piggledy into her carpetbag. “Don’t worry about me, I can find my way out.” Then, laughing at her own private joke, she swept out of the room, snapping the door shut behind her. From the other side, P.D. heard her blithely add, “I’ll leave the two of you to get out of your things.”

  The receding tap of her shoes was soon punctuated by the slam of the delivery door. Then a silence settled into the office, thick and heavy and warm.

  SIX

  P.D. looked up to find that Elam was still watching her, his eyes hooded, a muscle twitching in his jaw. She feared that Helen’s parting salvo had pushed him too far—that he would recognize her friend’s maneuvers as those of a married woman still so deeply in love with her husband that she felt it her Christian duty to ensure that all of her single friends were matched up two-by-two.

  But when P.D. feared that Elam had reached his snapping point, he surprised her again. He snapped, oh, yes, he snapped. But not with anger. Instead, he reached up to cradle her head between his palms while, at the same time, he pushed her back, back, against the edge of the desk. Then, just when her knees gave way and she sank onto its hard surface, he bent to crush his lips to hers.

  Like a match to kerosene, she opened her mouth to admit his sweeping intrusion. Her arms swept around his waist, feeling the bunch of his muscles as he bent over her, straining to taste her very essence. Then he reached to pull her up against him, one of his broad hands curling around her thigh and lifting it high until she wrapped her foot around the corded muscles of his leg and pressed even more intimately against him.

  There was no hiding his arousal now. She could feel the length of him straining against the buttons at his fly. P.D. ground herself against him, seeking to ease the ache settling deep within her. This time, the corset wasn’t to blame as she panted against him, desperately trying to drag air into her lungs as his kisses strayed to her cheek, her jaw, then down the line of her neck to the soft mounds pressing against her camisole.

  Her eyes closed and her whole being centered on that point of contact. She’d never been kissed by a man with a beard, and she found the sensation more arousing than she could ever imagine. Where the hair on his head was silken and soft, his beard was at the same time crisp and feathery, providing so many delicious sensations as it rasped across her breasts that she writhed against him, little kittenish sounds of pleasure and distress bursting unbidden from her throat.

  Elam must have heard them because he lifted his head. His expression was filled with something akin to wonder. As she watched, the color of his eyes changed to the deep molten blue of the secret hot spring she’d discovered deep in the woods up Wilson Pass.

  He drew back, tracing her cheek with the backs of his fingers. His thumb reached out to follow the lower curve of her mouth and she surprised him by lightly nipping the pad.

  He bent toward her again. But this time, his kisses were slow and lingering. He seemed to be learning the contours of her face, her lips, her mouth, through feel alone. Then he moved lower, trailing sweet nibbling kisses down her throat to her collarbone.

  P.D. couldn’t be sure, but she thought he took a moment to taste her. Then his calloused palm swept the strap of her camisole aside and he pressed a slow kiss to her shoulder.

  Unbidden, her arms wrapped around his waist, holding him tightly against her.

  “What are we doing, Prairie Dawn?”

  She’d always hated her name and bristled whenever it was used. But coming from his lips, the words sounded like a continuation of his caress.

  She didn’t know how to answer, so she remained silent, her head tucked beneath his chin, where she could hear the thump, thump, thump of his racing heart.

  P.D. knew she was playing with fire. There were a thousand reasons why she shouldn’t get involved with Elam Taggart. But at the moment, she couldn’t think of a single one. His arms felt so right around her. And the warmth of his body eased an inner chill that she’d carried with her for far too long.

  But then, to her infinite regret, Elam pressed a kiss to the top of her head and took a step back.

  “I think I’d better go,” he murmured.

  Sure she’d heard him wrong, P.D. frowned, gripping the folds of his shirt as if to keep him there. “Go?”

  He nodded. “If I stay …” He bent to brush a kiss over her forehead, her temple. “I’ll be laying you down on that swooning couch and we’ll be here ’til morning.”

  She opened her mouth to argue that such a thing might not be such a bad idea, but his lips moved to whisper across her cheek and then her lips. But when P.D. would have returned to the passion they’d shared only a few moment
s ago, he broke the contact and whispered next to her ear, “And I’m afraid I came to this party unprepared. It’s been … a long time.”

  It took her a moment to fathom his meaning, and damned if her cheeks didn’t burn with another telling blush when she realized that Elam was confessing to her that his most recent sexual partner had probably been his wife.

  This time, when he backed away, she didn’t stop him—even though her fingers twitched with the need to do so. But she wasn’t any more prepared than he was.

  Elam scooped up the clothing that Helen had brought, allowing the untidy bundle to fall strategically over the obvious shape of his erection.

  “I haven’t fed you,” she whispered belatedly, scrambling for a reason to make him stay. “You must be starving.”

  He paused, bending to press another quick kiss to her lips, then murmured, “You have no idea.”

  Then, before she could think of another way to delay his retreat, he let himself into the hall and closed the door behind him.

  She couldn’t help running to the back window so that she could watch him stride through the gloom toward his truck. When the Dodge roared past, she suddenly felt as young and giggly as a teenager watching her prom date disappear in the darkness.

  But the euphoria drained away as the silent shadows slipped back into the corners of the room, reminding her that she was alone. With them came her own doubts.

  What was she thinking? That she could fall into this man’s arms without regrets? He was on his way home, back to his cabin. Back to the memories of his wife.

  Maybe if P.D. was more like Annabel, they could have had a chance. But from the stories she’d heard, the two of them were polar opposites. And from her experience, men were born with an attraction to a certain type. They might stray occasionally out of curiosity, but they always committed to the same kind of woman.