Page 75 of Texas Honor

“When I wanted something,” he agreed. He studied her over the rim of the snifter. “I wanted you. But you were sixteen.”

She colored softly and stared into his eyes. “You never did anything about it.”

“I told you why. You were sixteen.” He swished the amber liquid around, watching the patterns it made in the glass. “I might have gotten around to it, if you hadn’t gone off to boarding school.” He smiled slowly. “It would have been the last straw, trying to take you out with all those giggling girls watching.”

Her lips trembled into a smile. “Really? Would you have?”

“I suppose I’d have come to it eventually,” he said enigmatically, shrugging his wide shoulders. “You were a pretty kid. You still are, haunted eyes and all.” He searched those eyes, watching the shadows in them. “You aren’t afraid of me physically.”

“Yes, I know.” She twisted a strand of her short hair uneasily and watched him. He’d taken off his jacket and vest and unfastened the top buttons of his white shirt. Dark skin and darker hair were visible in the deep V, and she felt a thrill of excitement at the memory of being held against his long, hard body.

He laughed, his voice deep in the stillness. “Don’t start getting nervous. I’m not going to pounce on you. I hope I have more finesse than that, especially after what you’ve been through.”

She studied her hands. “I don’t suppose anything frightens you. But I’m not physically strong, and I’ve had years of abuse, mental and physical. I carry my scars where they don’t show, but they’re very deep. So are Becky’s.”

He leaned back in the armchair, and for once he wasn’t smoking like a furnace.

“Becky’s young. Hers will heal. But yours won’t. Not without help.” He watched her with narrowed eyes, his dark head like ebony in the overhead light.

“Are you offering me the cure?” she asked, feeling bitter. “A little sexual therapy?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “I’m not that damned unselfish,” he replied quietly. “And I don’t need therapy. No, honey,” he added, leaning forward to pin her with his pale eyes. “If I made love to you, it wouldn’t be a cure—but it might be an addiction.”

Heat seemed to well up inside her. She averted her eyes to the carpeted floor. Just to think of having him touch her that way made her heart run wild. Magic, when intimacy had been such a dark thing in her life.

“Shy little girl,” he said with tender amusement. “Look at me, coward.”

She lifted her face, hating its reddened color and vulnerability. “Stop making fun of me.”

“Is that what I’m doing?” he asked. “I thought I was flirting.”

She really colored then and started to get to her feet. He rose at the same time, catching her arm gently in his free hand, to hold her just in front of him. He towered over her, all steely strength and masculine dominance, smelling of tangy cologne and soap.

“I haven’t spent much time around women in the past few years,” he said, his voice deep and slow in the stillness. “I’m rusty at social skills, so you’ll have to get used to a little embarrassment now and then. All you have to remember is that I’m no pretty boy with a line a mile long. I’m a country man with old-fashioned ideas and I’ll never hurt you. Physically or emotionally.”

“Are you trying to tell me that you won’t seduce me if I smile at you?” she asked, testing emotions she hadn’t used in over six years as she looked up at him.

He didn’t move. He seemed to be holding his breath. In fact, he was. The softness in those green eyes held him spellbound. He hadn’t realized just how vulnerable he was.

“That’s about the size of it. You don’t trust men, do you?” He touched her face with hesitant fingers. “I suppose we’re alike in being wary. I thought I was in love a few times, but I got burned badly once. I guess I’ve forgotten how to trust women in the years since.”

He sounded just faintly vulnerable, and something inside her stirred like a budding flower. She searched his face. “Damaged people,” she whispered.

He understood immediately, his nod more eloquent than speech. He brushed the back of his finger over her soft mouth. “Come here and kiss me.”

He bent as he spoke, and without the slightest hesitation she rose on tiptoe and kissed him. It was the first move she’d ever made of her own free will toward a man. He made everything so natural, so easy. She was sixteen again, feeling her first passion for a man. And there was Gabe, tough and hard and filling her world, her life.

“Gabe,” she whispered brokenly, holding him gently as she pressed her warm, soft mouth against his and flew up into the sun with the powerful response he gave her.

She felt his hand at the back of her head, pressing her lips hard against his, and then she was free and he’d moved away, turned away, so that she couldn’t see the effect she’d had on him. But when he put the brandy snifter down to light a cigarette, she noticed his hand wasn’t quite steady.

“You’re just dynamite,” she said dazedly.

He turned, his eyes shocked, delighted. He smiled at her. “Hell, so are you.”

It was a real smile, not a smirk or sarcasm. He lit the cigarette but his eyes held hers, searched them slowly. “Are you going to be that honest with me from now on?” he asked. “Because I’ll have to warn you, it’s dangerous.”

“Telling the truth?”

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