Page 13 of Irish Rebel
His voice had gone to croon, lulling her. As he worked, murmured, her eyes fluttered closed. Her muscles loosened, the knots untied. The threatening throbbing in her head faded away. She all but slid into a trance.
She arched against his hands, just a little. Moaned in pleasure. Just a little. He kept his hands firm, professional, even as he imagined skimming them down over her, slipping them under that soft white blouse. He wanted to touch his lips to her nape, just where his thumb was pressing. To taste her there.
And that, he knew, would end things before they’d begun. Wanting a woman was natural. Taking one, where the taking held such risks, was suicide.
So he let his hands drop away, stepped back. She nearly swayed before she caught herself. When she turned toward him, it felt almost like floating. “Thank you. You’re very good at that.”
Magic hands, she thought. The man had magic in his hands.
“So I’ve been told.” He shot her a cocky grin. “I’ve a feeling you need regular loosening up.” He snatched the bottle out of her hand. “Go drink some water, and change. You’re dressed too warmly for the heat of the day.”
She angled her head and was just annoyed enough now to give him a long, thorough look. His hair, all that mass of gold-streaked brown was windblown. That wonderfully sculpted mouth just quirked at the corners.
“Any other orders?”
“No, but an observation.”
“I’m fascinated.”
“No, you’re irritated again, but I’ll tell you anyway. Your mouth’s more appealing naked as it is now than when it’s painted as it was this morning.”
“So you don’t approve of lipstick?”
“Not at all. Some women need it. You don’t, so it’s just a distraction.”
Baffled, nearly amused, she shook her head. “Thanks so much for the advice.” She started for the house—where she’d been going to change into something cooler in the first place.
“Keeley.”
She stopped, but instead of turning merely glanced over her shoulder to where he stood, thumbs in the pockets of ancient jeans. “Yes?”
“It’s nothing. I just wanted to try out your name. I like it.”
“So do I. Isn’t that handy?”
This time he blew out a breath as she strode off—long legs in tight pants and tall boots. He lifted her soft drink, took a deep sip. Playing with fire with that one, Donnelly, he warned himself. Since he was damned sure singed fingers wouldn’t be all he would get if he risked a touch, it was best to back away before the heat became too tempting to resist.
Chapter Three
“Heels down, Lynn. Good. Hands, Shelly. Willy, pay attention.” Keeley scanned each one of her afternoon students’ form. They were coming along.
Six horses mounted with six children circled the paddock at a sedate walk. Two months before, three of those children had never seen a horse firsthand, much less ridden one. Royal Meadows Riding Academy had changed that. It was making a difference.
“All right. Trot. Heads up,” she ordered, hands on hips as she watched her students change gaits with varying degrees of success. “Heels down. Knees, Joey. That’s the way. You’re a team, remember. Looking good. Much better.”
She moved closer, tapped the heels of one of her two boys. He grinned and turned them down. Oh, yes, much better, she thought. A month before, Willy had jerked like a puppet every time she’d touched him.
It was all about trust.
She had them change leads, reverse, then attempt a wide figure eight.
It was a little messy, but she let them giggle their way through it.
It was also all about fun.
Brian watched her from a distance. He hadn’t seen her for a couple of days. Nearly all of his time had been spent at the stables or at one of the tracks where the Grants’ horses ran. Apparently Keeley didn’t spend much time at any of those locations.
He’d looked for her.
